


Saving Face

by shereadwhatshewrote



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Canon-Typical Violence, Dogs, Internal Monologue, Other, Self-Insert, Will edit tags as I go, does this count as a slow burn yet, i just want a beefy angry sugar daddy whos only tender for me ok ;n;, judge me all u want, like really really weird dogs, mentions of abuse, overly convoluted plots, reanna is the oc, relevant comments by the author, sporadic update schedule as always
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-22
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:35:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 12
Words: 23,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24856963
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shereadwhatshewrote/pseuds/shereadwhatshewrote
Summary: The elites of Gotham always look their best, in no small part to Reanna Webb. She helps to cover up the inevitable damage such a violent city deals to its citizens.Bruce Wayne had never used her services before. That all changes tonight, when Alfred calls her to Wayne Manor to care for him.
Relationships: Batman/OC, Batman/OFC, Bruce Wayne/OC, Bruce Wayne/OFC
Comments: 43
Kudos: 207





	1. An Unusual Appointment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reanna visits a trillionaire, and it's nothing like she would have expected.

The steps of Wayne Manor were not as intimidating as they seemed. Of course, I wasn’t using them, so they might have looked more pretentious from this side door that I was waiting at. I needed to be discreet, Mr. Pennyworth had insisted, as if the nature of my job hadn’t ingrained that in me from the beginning of my career.

Celebrity Personal Image and Health Manager. What a pretentious title. A poor representation of the care that I put into resetting broken bones, covering bruises and cuts from brushes with violence, domestic or criminal, temporarily replacing lost teeth or hair or nails. I’d worked for the best of them, from Lois Lane to Lex Luthor to Oswald Cobblepot to several politicians. But never for such a wealthy client as Bruce Wayne.

Bruce Wayne. I’d seen him on television, of course, everyone had, but the only time I’d seen the man in person was after a black tie fundraiser event for Gotham’s wealthy elite had been crashed by some sort of batshit crazy gang. I and a few others had been called to patch up the rich fuckers so they could get on with their fundraiser. I remember working on a woman in a silk pink dress, gently covering the cut on her cheek with fill-in putty before starting to mix a wound-safe shade of foundation. That swirling of green and peach, the sticky of the putty were dull sensations compared to the rising of hairs across the back of my neck. I held my ground, finishing her up and wiping my hands on a towel before turning towards the eyes glued to me. Golden brown, squinting slightly against the glare of glass reflected around the room. The man they were attached to was standing serenely, arms folded and chest wide. He was obviously comfortable here, despite the dust and debris. Perhaps he was the one hosting. I raised my case to him, a silent question; do you want that cut on your arm taken care of, Mr. Wayne? He seemed surprised, amused. A head shaken lightly in my direction sent me off, attending to a man holding a hand to his chest, fingers bent at odd and obscene angles.

The soundless opening of the side door broke me out of my recollection. Best not to linger on it, not remember any details in case this turned out to be a one-time cleanup. That was fairly common, for someone to put my services on retainer in case I needed to be called at odd hours only to cancel it after the first patch. People get nervous if someone is around too often, too close and too observant.

The manor was exactly as I had expected it to be, all smooth marble and dark wood panelling, chandeliers and flower vases. The farther away from the entrance, however, the decadence seemed to taper off, looking more and more like the average rich fella’s house.

“Master Wayne requires the utmost care, you understand.” From the concern in Mr. Pennyworth’s voice and the lived-in feel of this hallway, I’d say that we were nearing the object of my employment. “He may not talk much, if at all. It’s been a rough night. And no,” he said after glancing at the inquisitive expression I displayed, “you’d best not ask about it.” Despite our quick strides and my face pointed diligently forward, I could see him sizing me up out of the corner of his eye, dark irises nearly obscured by the delicate folded skin. “I would have taken care of this myself, of course, but I’m not nearly as nimble as I used to be, and with a board meeting in the early hours, Master Wayne really must appear to be at his best.” I nodded. That’s usually the deal, make my clients appear their best even if their jaws are wired shut or legs broken in multiple places.

We finally came to a halt in front of double doors, deep oak and silver handles. I made my deep inhale and exhale silent as the butler grasped one handle and tugged, opening the door with a surprisingly loud creak. Odd, for such an obsessively maintained house. But I was overthinking again, taking in more information than employers liked to have to account for. So I let that part of my brain run its own track, separate from the part of my brain focused on skin tension, scar thickness, color contrast.

The cool dark room I stepped into reminded me of a mausoleum, grey tones and stillness seeping from every corner. The groan and click of the door behind me spurred me on, approaching the figure sitting motionless in an armchair. A quick duck of my torso to turn on a side table lamp, then I sat back on my heels in front of him, assessing the damage not hidden by a dark robe.

Fractured collarbone, complete with periosteal bruising around the site and shoulder, possible fractured first rib, multiple lacerations and contusions along the shins and forearms, split lip, a deep cut along the chin.

“Depending on what you’re wearing tomorrow,” I said softly, blinking hard against his startle, “I’ll start with your face and move downward. Standard procedure.” The last part was mostly for myself, reassurance to combat my raging Impostor Syndrome. I know I’m the best in my field, I’ve been in this situation before, but this is… different. Something is off. I don’t know if it’s the deathly silence of this office, the single light source, or the fact that this man controls most of Gotham, or something else entirely, but opening my case did more to reassure me. Neatly arranged tubes and tubs, rolls of gauze and medical tape and invisisplints, tools held in place with small straps.

I removed a number of tubes and tools, setting them on the side table before reaching up to his face. I didn’t register any movement, but the crushing presence of hands grasping my wrist halted any motion I could have made. I paused for a moment, expecting the reflex to drop. His hands did not, only continued holding my arms in place with such grip my fingers began turning purple.

“Mister Wayne?” My question was quiet, but the sound broke him from whatever was holding him there, dropping his hands to his lap with a grunt. I caught a glimpse of something in his face, something… apologetic? But his face was tucked to the side again, keeping it out of the lamplight. I moved to bring his head back, slowly this time, pulling it forward until it rested squarely in my palms. “I have to see what I’m doing.” I started turning his face back and forth in the light, noting the coloration of small bruises, the length of cuts, the lines of his face that had to maintain integrity. With a sigh, I let his head go, turning back to my tools and various goops and tapes. Split lip first, bruises and scrapes later.

He placed his cheekbone back into my palm on his own, allowing me to begin applying the shriveglue to his lip, to fill in the quarter-inch gap between the skin. “This holds the skin together and gets reabsorbed as it heals, so you don’t have to worry about removing it.” He didn’t seem to hear me. His eyes wouldn’t focus, but the lack of pupillary disparity and general lack of head injury precluded the possibility of a concussion. It wasn’t medical, he was just lost somewhere inside his own head. “Hey. _Hey._ Wherever your head’s at right now, you’re not there anymore. Focus on the feeling on your skin, _focus on me._ ” That last part was what got through to him. The third time this evening something had taken me by surprise. Most people were banged up and a little confused, but the focus on bodily sensations was what brought them back to reality. Not Wayne though, he didn’t seem to want to think about sensations, only wanted to focus on something else.

And so I talked. I explained the different products I was using, their various uses. I pointed out how I could tell which color correction would work, which tools could mimic five o’clock shadow. He didn’t pay attention to the products at all, but I could tell that his eyes never left me for long, that my voice was slowly easing the tautness of his musculature. His face and neck were soon smooth again, seeming whole and unblemished. Then I turned to his shoulder.

“Has this been dislocated?” I asked after he jumped a mile when my fingers trailed lightly over the purple skin. Another grunt, another turn of his head away.

“Alfred put it back in.” The first time I’d heard him speak in person. I knew his voice was low and gravelly, but the deep rumbles reverberating in my chest were unexpected. _A hard quality for microphones to pick up,_ that other part of my brain scolded. Instead of a response, I nodded, looking once more through my case.

“This is going to hurt,” I mumbled softly. Applying an invisisplint always did. It looked like ordinary plastic wrap, but water made it tighten and harden into a cast easy to cover with makeup. The painful part was holding his fractured collarbone in place while it hardened. He took it like a champ, though, seemingly unfazed by the pain. The only indication that he felt anything at all was his fist, bunched together so tightly the veins popped in his forearm. It was worsening the bruising, but bruises and split lips were what I had the most experience fixing.

“Almost done,” I promised, pulling out the last of the supplies I needed and setting to work on his forearms. The cuts here were deeper, the bruising more intense. _Defensive wounds._ Shut up, nosy bitch, now is not the time. Instead of letting my frustration show, I pulled out the skinfill, a lovely little guazelike patch that I cut into strings, draping them carefully inside the strips of cuts, layering them when they were deep enough, a layer of shriveglue for every layer of skinfill. A top layer of shriveglue and he was all set to be painted.

“These,” I said, tapping the strips lightly, “should come out in three or four days. If I got here sooner we could have had it down to two, but four isn’t bad either.” My smile up at him was met with a stony expression, broken only when he moved to grab my hands. He turned them back and forth in the light as I did his face, examining them from every angle.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbled, tracing a forefinger over the worst of the bruising on my wrists.

“Oh, that?” I pulled my hands away, already setting up the foundation for his arms. “Don’t worry about it. My first client was myself, after all, so I know how to cover a couple little bruises.” I glanced up at him with a forced smile, and immediately wished I hadn’t. If I thought his expression was stony before, this was downright _molten._ I couldn’t keep that gaze for long, returning instead to my work. The media-perfect tan was a mixture I knew by heart, and I didn’t have to modify it much to match his skin. Soon his arms were as flawless as the rest of the upper body, and I moved onto his legs.

The bruises were deeper here, _like he’d been hitting something with his shins repeatedly._ I worked on them quickly, as _they were one of the least important parts that he might be exposing tomorrow at his… what was it, board meeting?_ Shut **up,** my god. I didn’t need that information right now. I wished to god that I could turn off that part of my brain, flick some switch and get that incessant stream of unneeded data to stop for once.

If he noticed my growing quietude, he didn’t say anything. Not that I expected him to, I suppose. A few minutes passed, the only sounds the snipping of skinfill, scraping of tools, and gentle plaps of goo onto skin. And then I was done, sitting back onto my heels before standing tall once again. I twisted, the popping of my back and hips breaking the near-silence. He moved to stand too, but I pushed him back into the armchair.

“I just need to double check your face, but give me a moment, please.” A nod, and I stepped back, rolling my shoulders and head backward slowly until I was bent over completely backwards. It wasn’t until my head was nearly touching my feet that my mid-back popped back into place. I let the breath _whoosh_ out of me when I righted myself, sinking into Child’s Pose for the briefest of moments before righting myself fully. “Thank you,” I sighed. Another nod, and I was back to stooping over him, pulling his face back into the lamplight.

“Just as I thought. Perfect.” My smirk was wiped away by a ladykiller grin, marred only by tired eyes. “That’s all for tonight then, Mister Wayne. I’d have whatever stylist or aesthetician double check the color-correction on your chest and face in the morning, but if that’s all…?”

I was surprised to hear a chuckle. His voice caught in my chest again, heavy rumbles that nearly made me shiver. “You’d think I’d have one of those by now, wouldn’t you?” He rubbed at his eyes, letting his hair fall forward. He brushed it back again and stood, his form positively _towering_ over my own. “Since I don’t, would you care to stay the night and double check in the morning?” The innuendo was clear, but I could tell his heart wasn’t in it. _Keeping up that Playboy image. What else are you hiding, Mister Wayne?_

I laughed and turned to pack up my case. “Unfortunately, I have to be getting back home. Gotta feed my dog and all. If you’d like, I can come by early and do that check. Otherwise, it was nice meeting you, Mister Wayne.” With no forthcoming response, I began walking to the door, motion only interrupted by a quiet string of words that I half-hoped I had imagined. They rang around my head like bells until the closing of my car door cut off sounds of rain, snapping me back into work mode. They were still there, chanted over and over again by that other side of my brain, more a curse than a reassurance that I had heard them.

_“I’d like that.”_


	2. Business Essentials

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ehhhhh I dont really like the second half of the chapter but its needed for setup so ¯\\_(ツ)_/¯

Wayne Tower. I had been perfectly content to double check last night’s applications in the Manor, somewhere I’d been before, but Mr. Pennyworth, _Alfred, he said to call him,_ insisted that Mr. Wayne had already arrived at the Tower and would proceed without the checkup if I didn’t do it myself.

A double check wouldn’t normally be this important, as my client list is confidential anyways, but this was Bruce motherfucking _Wayne._ If the most influential man in Gotham looks _off,_ someone is bound to notice, and more importantly, they’ll find out _who made him look bad._ I had never doubted my work before, and I didn’t know why I was now. _Yes, I do._ Not now, I didn’t need that now. I was only doubting myself because this is my most high-profile client as of yet.

Wayne Tower. Intimidating to some, welcoming for others. I forced it to have no effect on me, to return to that cool and calculated workspace in my head, forced the transition from mud and rain to chrome and granite, panicked to collected. Now was the time for work. Every stride was easier, my breaths more even and mechanical. Work mode. The glass elevator gave me no pause by the time I reached it, smoothly swinging an arm to touch the call button. Within seconds the doors opened, and I was on my way to the near-top. A few hallways, and I was diligently knocking on an office door, awaiting an answer I was half-sure would never come.

But it did, the door swinging inward to reveal a more rumpled CEO than I would have expected, even for six in the morning. “Good morning, Mister Wayne.” My smile, so often met with an easement of body tension, a relaxation. This morning, it was met with a fatigued smirk, a motion thrown over his shoulder to follow. His _whump_ into a sleek rolling chair was much louder than the clack of my case on the glass table. “I take it your night wasn’t as restful as you’d hoped?”

“When are they?” My answering smile was kept polite as I settled my rear next to my case. _That’s odd. His busted lip was almost completely healed, only the barest hints of shriveglue left in what had been a sizable gap. The cut on his chin was definitely smaller._ I never even noticed when I began retracing the injuries, only stopped by an amused snigger.

I had unbuttoned the first three buttons on his dress shirt, had my hand on that fractured collarbone. The invisisplint was still in place, but remarkably looser, _like the swelling had already gone down in the few hours since I had seen it last._ “My apologies,” I said, blinking rapidly, as if that could fend off the heat in my face and neck or the whispering voice from the other track of my brain. “You heal exceptionally fast, Mister Wayne. I’ve seen a lot of injuries in my time, and, _well_...”

“If you wanted my shirt off, you could have just asked.” When I managed to drag my gaze back to him, his eyes were soft, unburdened by whatever had plagued him last night. His fingers, quick and fluid, were already rebuttoning. “Not the strangest thing you’ve seen, I’m sure.” There was something about the set of his mouth, the quirk of his brow that suggested that this really was one of the things that I had better leave alone.

I did. I turned back to my case, mixing the exact shade of his foundation within moments. That lamplight had it come out just a little too orange, just a little off from his real skin. I doubt anyone would notice except me, but this was Bruce Wayne. Every spot, every _pore_ had to be perfect. The removal pads had been specially designed by myself to remove only the makeup, not the underlying structural appliques, and wiped away that off-shade in a single swipe. For a newer product, it was performing better than I had hoped. Even if it hadn’t, I’d brought along any replacements I might have needed. Wayne bore it better than most men I’d worked with, not complaining about the nail polish-esque smell or the feeling on his skin.

A moment later and he was smooth and sleek again, skin unmarred by red and purple. I turned away to begin reassembling my case, but was caught off-guard by a hand on my elbow. “Where do you get these products? I might be interested in obtaining some for my personal use.” It was my turn to smile again, cracking wide in the stiff room.

“Actually, I make them all myself. I don’t trust traditional cosmetics to cover everything I need them to, and half the products I need aren’t for sale anyways. This, for example,” I said, holding up a tube of shriveglue, “took me a year to perfect. Spirit gum, lash glue, Nuskin, nothing worked like I needed it to. So I mixed it up myself, put in the hours to make new products to suit my needs.” That seemed to intrigue him, judging by the creak of his chair behind me. I was more focused on the alignment of my tools and tubes.

“Would you be interested in joining me for lunch to talk about business opportunities?”

I didn’t turn around. I kept the motion of my arms steady, mechanical. “And what makes you think I’m interested in these _opportunities,_ Mister Wayne?” My voice came out cold and emotionless, or maybe I had just convinced myself the warble wasn’t present.

I finally turned my gaze to him when he placed his hands on the table in front of me, resting on the glass just inside my vision. Across the table, his posture said Businessman Laying Down the Law, but his expression didn’t match his body language, almost like he was… Grateful? Relieved? “Well, I can hardly spell everything out right here and now, but I can promise to make it interesting. So,” he said, straightening up and relaxing, “lunch today?”

I shook my head, hiding a smirk in the lapel of my jacket and picking up my case. “Not today, Mister Wayne. I’ve got other clients lined up until the end of this week, barring any emergency calls.” I began walking away, waving over my shoulder and calling out, “Have your people call my people.” I didn’t stop to take in his reaction, just kept my pace even and kept going, until I reached that glass elevator again.

 _Blowing off a trillionaire has consequences._ And so did sacrificing appointments with my current clients. _Not every client could buy you a million times over._

My head was beginning to hurt. Maybe it was waking up so early without breakfast. Back in the dull safety of my car, I rung up Brie, relishing the safety of a normal person. So often I was surrounded with people of another echelon, it was nice to talk to someone with at least marginally the same experience as I. She sounded tired, but I suppose anyone would be at six thirty in the morning on a Monday. “Hey, sweetie, sorry to call so early. I know you don’t usually start until nine, but my head is pounding and I was hoping you could grab me some tylenol or ibuprofen? I’m on the way to my seven o’clock.”

“Sure thing, Miss Webb, no problem.” She paused to yawn, and I could hear the rustle of her sheets. “Seven o’clock… on thirty-second? Yeah, I can be there in under ten. Coffee?”

Such a sweetheart. “Only if you promise to eat something and get yourself some caffeine, too.”

I could practically hear her smile when she voiced an affirmative. I set the phone down and I was off, guided by the tinny voice of my GPS. Within minutes I had pulled into the parking garage of a swanky apartment building. Signs everywhere warned against trespassing, and the obvious cameras gave the vague sensation of being watched. That idea put me on edge, disliking the feeling of someone hovering near me, my every move under a microscope.

The doorman gave me only a little trouble after asking for my ID, and warned against me revealing the location of any residents inside. “They pay pretty heavily for discretion, you know,” he laughed as I walked away, already tired of that constant reminder that my clients wanted _privacy._

When someone pays for my services, they sign a contract in which I establish my and my assistant’s vow of silence, a promise not to reveal details or even the existence of whatever they had been through, in exchange for discreet recommendations to anyone else who might require my services. The nature of that promise, that required silence, was a source of much irritation, but I grit my teeth through it anyways. It’s not my place to reveal when someone is abused or taken advantage of or was some sort of trauma survivor. They need to decide that for themselves, between them and the proper resources. Resources that I was more than happy to provide, as I had an excellent working relationship with counselors and therapists and advocacy groups in and out of Gotham.

The door I stopped in front of was unassuming, plain even, compared to others that I passed, just off-white with an oak knocker under the peephole. The woman that answered a few moments after my quiet knocking was tall, and welcomed me in after looking me up and down. I kept my gaze even. If you linger too long over injuries or even _refuse_ to look at them, it can make them self-conscious or ashamed. It’s good to put them at ease, to give them the respect and whatever distance they may require to get comfortable with me. It’s hard to be a few inches from someone’s face when you can’t relax, can’t trust them. I had her settled down at a table, had even opened my case before there was a knock at the door. The woman, _Natalie Merkar, talk show hostess,_ that part of my brain produced, jumped up, clearly alarmed.

“Please,” I said, gently guiding her back into the seat, “allow me.” I checked through that peephole, decorated with leafy vine moulding on this side, and was relieved to find Brie. I opened the door for her, and brought her to that table to introduce her. “Natalie, this is Brie Hanover, my P.A. Although really, she’s more like a sister to me.” She smiled a tired smile at me around the stack of to-go cups in her arms, dirty blonde topknot messy and lopsided. I took the top two cups from her, looking at the markings on the side. “Mocha?” I offered, holding out the cup that wasn’t mine.

“Oh, I don’t, uh. I don’t drink caffeine.”

I smiled and set it to the side of my case. “More for us, then. Now,” I grunted, sitting down and accepting the little bottle of Aleve Brie handed me, “let’s get to work, shall we?”

The extent of her injuries weren’t particularly severe, some bruising around her jaw and a few stitches near her browbone. _Severe for someone without firsthand exposure to violence, idiot._ I _know_ that, and I would never call the injuries minor out loud, it was just a comparison to some of the shit _I’ve_ seen. But I needed to quiet the chatter in my brain, needed to make small talk with Natalie, who was significantly more nervous with another person in the room.

I took the stitches out, and was thankful for the ointment I had designed. Total numbness of the skin, and it absorbed completely, leaving the skin moisturized and prepped for shriveglue. Without it, her stitches would have been too painful to remove. Other than that, it was just regular makeup work, which was supremely easy. I matched it to her real skin tone, not her tanned hostess appearance so that her set aesthetician wouldn’t know the difference. I heard Brie on the phone a few times, but largely it was a quiet appointment, just soothing small talk and an excess of politeness.

I wished her a good day, and stepped out in the hallway with Brie, relieved at having a companion for the walk back to my car. “Thanks again, honey.” She beamed at me, raising her cup in silent acknowledgement before draining it completely and tossing it to a can. “Anything new?”

Her work phone was in her hands in the blink of an eye, fingers scrolling through messages and calendars faster than I could track. “Mmmmm… your nine o’clock canceled, something about just staying home. Your three got moved to one thirty, and lunch tomorrow with Wayne at noon at La Fonda’s.” She was eyeing me, trying to see my reaction at this news.

I sighed, rubbing at my eyes. Two cups of coffee was not enough. “ _Wayne_ Wayne?” A nod, a few more scrolls, and her phone was hidden again. “I suppose that’s alright. He’s persistent, if anything.” I gave her a one-armed hug, then waved her off toward her little electric car. “Go, go home and go back to sleep. You’re gonna need it for that midterm tomorrow, yeah?” She seemed taken aback that I remembered, and gave me another quick tight hug before moseying over to her car.

Lunch with Wayne at La Fonda. I could have sworn that I had a lunch meeting with a Gotham Women’s Resource agent tomorrow, but Brie’s schedule hasn’t been wrong yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> life has really been killing me so please *fatass indiana cop girl voice* show me some sUPPORT


	3. Business Proposals and Backstories

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lunch date, two folders, and a _bad_ car.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is,,, way longer than I meant for this chapter to be whoops

La Fonda turned out to be a small Italian-Mediterranean restaurant, but extremely upscale. If not for my host, I’d never have gone near the place. Too cramped, too… dramatic. What did catch my attention was Mister Wayne, lounging and talking animatedly with someone from another table. How many sides can one man have? _Plenty, if he doesn’t want for much._

“Mister Wayne?” When he looked at me, I suddenly felt exposed, as if my usual low bun and slack-blouse combo was inadequate. I sat down smoothly anyways, steeling myself for what was certainly going to be an uncomfortable lunch.

“Coffee?” He flicked his hand, signaling a waiter.

“Please.” Within moments we both had elegant steaming cups in front of us. I couldn’t help but take in the thick aroma, deep and rich. I took note of but paid no attention to his bemused smirk, the way he leaned back in his chair, coffee sipped from one hand as I layered in creamer and a truly ungodly amount of sweetener.

“Not a fan of bitterness?”

It was my turn to smirk, still emptying packets into my mug. “I’ve got enough bitterness already, Mister Wayne, and I could do with a little more sweetness in my life.” I finally looked up at him when I took a sip, and had to close my eyes, just for a moment. _Perfect._ “Now. Would you care to explain how you managed to contact my former lunch appointment for today and why you couldn’t wait a week? My clients pay a lot to remain out of anyone’s attention.”

“But it wasn’t a client, was it? Meredith Hale, the outreach coordinator for Gotham’s Women’s Resource Agency. She said she was shocked at how easily I found out about your meeting, but I promised her, just as I’m promising you, that I’ll never break any promise of privacy or _discretion._ ”

I raised a brow, setting my coffee down and folding my hands on the table. “You still haven’t told me how. Now, I’m not sure how you do business, but I certainly don’t get into bed with people who aren’t open about their interactions with me and my people. So I’ll ask you again, Mister Wayne. How did you find out about my meeting?”

He seemed to settle, like something that was bothering him was now at ease. _An interesting motif, the way that I soothe him so._ “There was no hacking or breach of privacy, if that’s what you’re wondering. I only talked to people, asking around about you. When someone wasn’t willing to talk, I looked elsewhere. One woman, who asked that I not mention her name, provided me with a copy of her contract.” He stopped for a moment, gulping coffee before signalling the waiter again. “For someone who operates in such privacy, I was surprised to find a list of domestic violence resources in the back. I called those resources, asking if anyone had a lunch appointment this week that they were willing to push back. Miss Hale was the only one willing, and here we are.”

He sat back in his chair, lounging once again and perfectly at ease, before a steaming plate was set in front of him, mushroom risotto by the texture and smell. I was surprised to have another plate set on my side of the table. _Curious._ “And you knew fettucini alfredo is my favorite how?”

Wayne smiled, and I could tell it was genuine by the soft crinkles around his eyes, the way his jaw wasn’t set so harshly. “Call it a lucky guess.”

“Well,” I said, glancing down to spear a piece of shrimp, “I’d call you a very lucky man, then. The way to any girl’s heart is caffeine and pasta.” _Perfectly cooked, creamy as hell, spices and herbs in perfect balance. Delicious._ “So, these business opportunities?”

“Straight to the point, aren’t you? I can work with that.” _Damn that stupid grin._ “You mentioned before that no currently existing cosmetic products could get your job done. I was already considering expanding Wayne Enterprises to encompass new areas, and you gave me the perfect idea: Wayne Cosmetics.” I raised an eyebrow, content with politely spinning noodles into my mouth while he continued. “These wouldn’t be ordinary cosmetics, of course. They’d be designed after your products, and not just makeup. Your other designs, the skin glue and wound fillers, we could work on those as well. As much funding as you need, of course, so we can commercialize the products for distribution.”

I set my fork down, and adjusted the napkin in my lap. “I don’t know if I really want to commercialize my products, Mister Wayne. I don’t like to be under anyone’s thumb. I like to work on these things myself, as a lot of the fundamentals of my products are not necessarily anyone else’s specialty. I doubt there are a lot of doctors who specialize in cosmetics _and_ chemical product design. Besides, they’re designed to be applied by a professional. Makeup artists don’t even know how to mix foundation shades without phthalates and parabens while keeping them sterile and capable of covering deep bruising or appliques. And if makeup artists and aestheticians can’t do all that, how could the average person presume to do so?”

He blinked, as if this was some sort of surprise. “Of course it would be you working on them. Your own lab, a handpicked staff, any equipment you might need. That’s only the first step, of course. The end goal would be to create products that the average person would be able to use, as well as high-end products that you and others in your field could take advantage of. And of course, _this_ ,” he said, reaching to pull a thin stack of papers from a blue folder, “would be another goal. Outreach. This tells me that you care a great deal about the people you work with, Miss Webb, and you want to improve their lives.” He ran a finger over the small lines of text. It was hard to tell from across the table, but it looked like copies of the shelters, phone lines, and websites that I included in contracts with persons clearly suffering from domestic abuse.

“You surprise me, Mister Wayne.” He looked up quickly from the packet, those golden eyes catching the light. _Like warm honey._ **Stop that.** “You seem to be the first person that’s picked up on the most important aspect of my job. It’s one thing to give people the confidence boost of looking uninjured, but it’s quite another to help them feel safe.” _That damn smile. Like he heard exactly what he wanted, and it elated him._ **Focus!** “I have to say, this is a very tempting offer. I’m hesitant to give any sort of affirmative without seeing any paperwork to consider first, and I have to see what my upcoming schedule is like. But I want you to know that this offer means a lot to me, and I… appreciate it. The opportunity for growth, I mean.”

“Well, you’re very welcome. And as for the paperwork specifics,” He paused to pull out another folder, this one dark red, “I have a base contract here, _very_ open to negotiation.” He set it to the side, almost at the median of the table. “But you can look at that later, it’s much too much to discuss over lunch. I’d rather spend the rest of our time getting to know each other. You said you don’t get into bed with people who aren’t open and honest. I assume I can expect the same courtesy?” 

I nodded, taking my time swallowing before answering. “Absolutely. I’m an open book, Mister Wayne. I’ll let you know if there’s anything I don’t feel comfortable sharing, but that’s a fairly short list.” 

“Of course, of course. So tell me, how did you get into this business?” 

**_**Oh.** _ **

“Consider the outreach, Mister Wayne, and my need for the products. My parents were… a crucible and a catalyst. I used to hold a deep resentment toward them, but I choose to see them as my source of empathy. My origin story, if you will.” That earned a quick grin, but his eyes didn’t match. I couldn’t place it. I sighed instead of digging, and launched myself forward with my spiel. “So, fast forward to college and medical school. I made it part way through my first year of residency before it really hit me _how many_ people were going through what I did, and how many of them carried the shame of it across their bodies. I was already considering dropping out and going back to school, so I got another degree in chemistry. That’s when I started making my own products. Fast forward a couple more years and I had a thriving business going. And eventually, I even got offered a contract by the famous Bruce Wayne himself.” My rant was over, well received with smiles over the lips of mugs. 

Our chatter continued, quickly settling into a witty pace, quips and soft laughter flying back and forth. It was comfortable, almost like meeting up with a friend you hadn’t talked to in quite some time. I kept having to remind myself _this is my potential future boss, not someone I can get too chummy with._ But soon our coffees were gone (twice over) and plates practically scraped clean. 

“Dessert?” The raise of his hand was cut off by the shaking of my head, the smile despite an overfull stomach. 

“Are you trying to kill me, Wayne? I’ve still got clients.” A glance at my watch had me cursing, swiping to grab my bag and pushing my chair back. “This was lovely, and I’ve got a lot to think about. I’ll have my P.A. get in touch, send over a reviewed version,” I said, waving the red folder. 

He stood quickly, mock anger written over his face. “You can’t seriously think a gentleman like myself isn’t going to walk a lady to her car.” 

I couldn’t help but roll my eyes, just a smidge. “If you insist, signore.” I was thrown off, just a little bit, by the arm he offered. I took it, letting myself be gently led along. Past the other tables, through the doors, before finally I was the one leading him to my car. “This is me.” We stopped, and I pulled the sleeve of his dress shirt back, touched one of the lines along the outside of his forearm. “And these are more ready for me than Darlene over there is.” 

He looked surprised, as if he hadn’t even thought about the strips of fabric still embedded in his skin. “How did you know?” He rubbed at the ridges, fingertips barely catching on the fibers beginning to peek out. 

“Oh, I estimated based on how much you had already healed yesterday morning. Half the time seemed to do it, and I felt it when I grabbed your arm. Expensive shirts can’t hide my skinfill texture, unfortunately. Now, I’ve got a client in a few minutes, but I can take care of these tonight or tomorrow morning, if you’d like.” 

He nodded, then looked back and forth between me and my silver car, something like disbelief coloring his otherwise smooth features. “Darlene?” 

I laughed, backing up and opening the door. “Why, Mister Wayne, you can’t have a car as cantankerous as Darlene without giving her a name to match!” And then the door was shut and I was starting my car. Or rather, it started on the second try. The automatic window quickly revealed my resigned smile, still beaming. “Just a year old and runs like a nightmare.” I gave a wink and a wave, and I was off, trying to get the image of him laughing and lifting a hand in farewell out of my head. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> set up for the set up aaaaaaaaaa


	4. A Postponed Meeting

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sorry this took so long to get out! life is my most consistent fuckbuddy

My evening meeting with Wayne was delayed by a phone call from Alfred, hushed tones requesting my presence a few hours later, almost midnight. I was a little uncomfortable with meeting someone so late, but Mr. Pennyworth assured me that it was only because Wayne had acquired more damage, and was engaged until late this evening. That voice in my brain asked about it incessantly, _what could he be doing, why is he waiting if he’s already injured, were other people seeing him bloody and bruised, why was he continuing to be hurt?_ But I had long learned to stifle it, to shove it down so I was clear-headed enough to work without the chatter distracting me. I wasn’t to ask about it, wasn’t supposed to pry or make it my business why it was happening. But damn if I didn’t want to _know_.

Alfred led me to a different room this time, along that same lived-in hallway. Some sort of entertainment room, going by the plush chairs and cherrywood side tables. Wayne himself was sat on a couch, one arm propped precariously on several throw pillows at an odd angle, the other gripping a half-full glass far too tight. I sighed, and set my case in the space next to him. _What on earth had he been doing in the few hours since I’d seen him last?_

“Mister Wayne.” His head turned slightly, but his attention was still elsewhere, still in that survival headspace. “ _Bruce._ ” He finally looked at me when I pried his fingers from the glass, setting it with a clunk on a table nearby, his eyes unfocused and disparate. _Shit._ A pocket flashlight flicked across his eyes had him shrinking away, but I pulled him back towards me with a soft hand on the back of his head. “Follow my finger.” Shaky, following for a half-second before flicking past and back again. “You’ve got a concussion, Mister Wayne.” _And contusions and lacerations coming out the ass._

He looked startled at that, but I was already cataloguing the injuries I could see, refusing to even begin counting them. “This,” I said, plucking at his black undershirt, “needs to be cut off. It’s stuck inside your cuts and I’m not about to have you pull it off normally. Either way, I need to get a better look at that arm.” The section I was worried about was his side, deep gashes along the length of his left ribs had stuck inside, had partially dried in blood. I didn’t want them to reopen, especially at that size. He didn’t protest when I brought out the shears and cut it vertically upwards along his midline. A few short cuts later, and his torso was exposed. His left arm gave me some trouble, with him wincing and pulling away at every movement. I couldn’t tell until I gave it a full examination after these cuts, but his elbow was either broken or horribly dislocated. Forearms should _not_ move at that angle. I set it back on the pillows, now stacked neatly to provide proper support and elevation, and stepped back for a general analysis of the severity of his injuries.

 _No one ever mentioned that Bruce Wayne was **stacked**._ It wasn’t only the other track of my brain distracted by the musculature. I had glimpsed his upper torso during my other treatments, but it didn’t do him justice. Deep grooves between the abdominals and obliques, cut lines between the anterior latissimus dorsi, pectorals to put Hugh Jackman to shame. If not for the bruising and blood, a perfect specimen. **Focus.**

The bruising was worrying, just a little. Bruised ribs at least, and I wasn’t looking forward to prodding them to see if they were broken. Series upon series of shallow cuts, grouped together in sets of three and five. I didn’t particularly need to worry about them, some skinfill and they’d be fine. The three cuts on his ribs were definitely my biggest concern. About an inch deep, made by something serrated judging by the ragged edges of the wounds. I wouldn’t be able to work on them properly, though, until I took care of that damn elbow.

“Do you want a local anaesthetic?” He shook his head, just picked up his glass again and took a gulp. _Idiot_. “Fine. This is gonna hurt.” ‘This’ was moving his elbow through the full range of movement, slowly and repeatedly. I wasn’t just feeling for crunching and improper movement, I was listening for creaking and pops. Thankfully, mercifully, it wasn’t broken, just dislocated completely. He bore the exam with the same stoic expressionlessness as he did when I reset his clavicle, but I wasn’t there when his shoulder had been reset. “It needs reset. Bite down on this.” I handed him a pillow, suitably thick for an oral cushion. He shook his head and made to toss it away. “Listen to me. I don’t want to have to do dental repair if you crack your teeth. _Bite the damn pillow._ ” A sound from his throat caught my breastbone again, a growl if I didn’t know any better. But the pillow was in his mouth now, and that’s what mattered.

The worst part of setting dislocated joints is the _sound._ Every sick pop, every crunch set my teeth on edge, made me sick to my stomach. A wholly unnatural sound. I had been trained to ignore it and focus on the actual resetting but the sick feeling never left, never once diminished in the whole of my career. It took only one try to get it aligned property, thank god, and under fifteen seconds. A sharp tug and twist, then shoving it forward again. They set properly, and judging by the nature of the swelling and bruising, the bursa was still intact.

Wayne hadn’t let go of the pillow yet, jaw muscles bunched and clamped. I gave him a moment, and when the spasming of his jaw didn’t subside, I massaged them gently. It took a few minutes, of delicately pressing through the ripples of contraction to get them to lessen, for his face to begin unscrewing from its contorted posture. I removed the cushion when I could, and set about checking for cracked teeth anyway considering the holes his teeth had torn through the fabric. Mercifully intact, I returned to massaging his masseter to ease the tension. Couldn't have him worsening the swelling under his eye and the side of his mouth any more than he already had.

He opened his eyes when my fingers left his face. I couldn’t look too long at them, can’t stand to see that pit in them that I didn’t know how to fix. Instead I turned back to his elbow. A silver bucket of ice had appeared by my side, and I mentally thanked Alfred for this foresight. An audible hiss from Wayne had me slowing down, sinking his elbow into it slower and slower. When it was completely submerged, I lifted the arm to rest it on the back of the loveseat, bucket resting against the wall to prevent spillage. I needed access to his ribs.

The suture kits at the bottom of my case hadn’t been used in quite some time. It wasn’t often that cuts were deep enough that even skinfill couldn’t help. The muscles needed to be stitched back together. A difficult job, and one I hadn’t had much practice at lately. Still, the shredded edges fit together well enough, and then I was ready to move onto the skin. He’d leave with scars no matter how much ointment I applied, and judging from the layers and layers of them across his upper body, he didn’t seem to mind. Still, it irked me. Scars are one of the hardest things to cover and one of the last things I needed to master. I was thankful that my own weren’t immediately visible, but the lack of practice had me less certain about fixing them. I could do it, of course, but I still had Brie sifting through tabloids when I wasn’t as sure as I should've been.

I moved from cut to cut, patching the worst first and graduating to smaller ones. They all had that same serrated tear, in the same order of size in those clusters. I didn't see it until I paused my ministrations to flex my hands, and they lined up against the rows. _Like claws. That means that he’s some sort of --_

**I’m not here to make connections.**

“I need to see if your ribs are broken.” He gave a soft grunt. Red and purple splashes covered the fifth through seventh ribs. The sixth gave the biggest wince, the muscle tension and breaks in breathing giving off warning signs. I warmed my stethoscope on my hand, and instructed him to breathe deeply. Faint creaking, the faintest, faintest grinding. _Hairline fracture, just barely there._

“Not broken,” I said as a placed the scope back in my case, “But it will be if you _push yourself._ Take it easy.” I fixed him with a pointed look until he relented, still looking away as he granted me a small nod. “I don't know what you keep doing, _Bruce,_ but you need to take some time to heal. Besides, I can’t be here every night if I’m gonna set up a lab.” He looked up, just a tad confused. “I’ve got the contract in my car. I have a few notes, but overall you’re very generous.” A small smile, a twitch of his lips really. I focused taking tubs and spatulas out of my case.

The skinfill came out of his arms and shins with ease, peeling gently upward from the edges with raw, pink baby skin underneath, easily covered in shriveglue. The nicks and small bruises on his face only took moments to cover, and the tools were headed back to their designated sections. I kept having to pull my eyes away from his. They were focusing slightly better, becoming distracting and dazzling once more as he returned from whatever headspace he had been in and returned to his usual self. I knew that headspace well. A state of separated calm, the kind you needed to maintain when the adrenaline ran dry. Returning from that space could be overwhelming, and I took care to minimize the noise of my tools’ return to their places while making enough noise to keep my presence constant.

I finally closed the hard lid and clicked it shut, letting out a sigh as I folded my arms on top. These long days and late nights were starting to get to me.

“Reanna?” I turned my head, looking up at him beside me. “I’m…”

“Yes?”

He started to speak, then stopped. “I’m glad you decided to sign on.” _What had he failed to say?_

I smiled a little, eyes closing as I hummed. I blindly reached up, unpinning my hair to help with this headache and letting it fall around my face in loose copper waves. I stayed like this a moment, savoring the comfortable silence. I startled at the presence of fingers in my hair, pushing it out of my eyes. He gave an apologetic shrug, but continued running his fingertips across my scalp in soothing circles, slowly easing away the uncomfortable pressure.

“Mmh, you could do that forever. But instead,” I paused to groan as I stretched, “I should probably get home. It's late and it’s supposed to rain.” A few more quick stretches and I was back on my feet, case in hand. “I mean it, though. You need to be kinder to yourself. Do what you need to do, but don’t push it. You should be going to a real doctor as it is.” I turned to walk away, interrupted by that catch in my breastbone.

“You are a real doctor.” I gave him a tight smile, and left through those cherrywood doors. He knew exactly what I meant, he just didn’t want to admit it.


	5. Coffee and Conversations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reanna and Bruce sign their contract, and grab some caffeine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hurr durrr how much set up does the story actually need  
> too much  
> way, way too much

The next few weeks seemed to fly by, a flurry of appointments with clients and meetings with lawyers to discuss Wayne’s contract and hushed meetups with men and women scared of leaving all they knew. If the long nights were getting to me before, they most certainly were now. I had to spend several minutes more each morning just covering the bags under my eyes, which had grown into sickly purple-grey crescents. More tiring than these late nights, though, was maintaining that steady sense of calm and collection, making my general sense of fatigue disappear so as not to distract my clients from my applications. A distracted worker is a questionable worker, after all.

At least Wayne seemed to be following my advice on giving his body a rest. I'd only been called to him once more, and even then it was only some deep bruises to cover instead of his usual assortment of injuries. His speed of recovery never ceased to amaze me. Cuts that should have taken weeks to heal were gone in a matter of days, bruises disappearing practically overnight. That elbow took a little longer, but in a matter of a week or so he was back to his full range of motion. Not that I mentioned any of this, of course. He'd made it clear that I was to ignore that aspect of my ministrations.

At last, it came the day to sign that contract. It was generous, as he’d promised, and I'd only had a few changes to put through. I gave Brie the day off, as this meeting and a few clients were all I had to take care of. Lawyers made her nervous, and there wasn't much for her to do anyways. I didn't like lawyers either, but they were necessary for forming legal ties to Wayne Enterprises. That made me wary, just a bit, to have my work tied to such a large corporation, but assurances both from Wayne and his contract soothed those jitters. Mostly.

The meeting itself took only a few minutes, just a few short words and flashy signatures. Then the lawyers packed up their papers in their shiny briefcases and left Wayne and myself standing in that conference room, staring down at each of our copies of the contract.

“So,” I said, finally breaking the silence. “Monday, then?”

He nodded, absentmindedly rubbing the back of his neck. “Monday.” He finally looked up at me when I yawned, mouth stretching wide with a breathy groan before snapping shut. “Coffee?” he suggested.

“Coffee,” I agreed, trying and failing to stop rubbing at my eyes.

I didn't object when his arm led me to his car, sleek and black. _Odd, that he drives himself instead of using a chauffeur._ The short drive was quiet, only the sounds of traffic and soft growl of the engine. We pulled up to a swanky cafe, bustling even at this early hour. A few minutes more and we were sat in the morning chill with steaming cups, the cold metal and hot foam contrasting at each end of my body. It helped to keep me awake.

“Long nights?” Wayne’s eyes were sympathetic, and showed the same tired lines that mine had begun to exhibit. I nodded, too busy gulping down my latte to give a proper response. “You should get some rest.” I nearly choked on my drink.

“I thought I was supposed to be the one telling people to rest.”

“Then you should take your own advice.” It seems he couldn’t help the smile after a coy sip, couldn’t help a laugh that pulled his lips wide, teeth glinting in the new sunlight. “Seriously, though,” he said, sobering quickly. “You seem stressed. We won’t have your lab up and running for a few weeks, so why don’t you try and take it easy?”

 _God, I wish._ “I would love to, Mister Wayne, but as it is, I’ve got a steady stream of clients. I’m trying to refer them to other specialists, so I can focus on our new venture, but they don’t seem to want to change over. I’d credit that to my skill, but I’m sure we’re both aware I’m incapable of that.” It was my turn to hold back a smile and laugh. Hadn’t I just been exhausted and tense this morning?

“I’m sure no one can match your level of expertise. That’s why I hired you. I’m sure some will be fine if they have to go for their second choice. You deserve a good break.” I started to protest, to explain about the hard, determined feeling that helping even those that couldn’t pay gave me, but he cut me off before I could even get started. “At least take a break next weekend. I’m hosting a fundraiser, and one of the recipients is the Gotham’s Women’s Resource Agency. You don’t have to spend the whole night working and schmoozing. In fact, I hope you don’t. Just take the time to relax in style.” How could I say no to that damn smile, those warm, pleading eyes?

“I… I guess I could use a nice night. I’ll have to reschedule some things, though,” I mumbled, pulling out my phone to text Brie. When I looked up, Bruce was positively _beaming._ “What?” His elation was infectious.

“I just didn’t think I could convince you to go. You seem to work nonstop.”

“I could say the same to you. You’ve never said, Wayne,” I paused to toss the now empty cup into a close bin, and turned back to face him. “What exactly do you do in your spare time? I know what the public does, of course, but after getting to know you, it seems more and more like a facade.” The elation was gone now, leaving a careful mask that just barely registered as _on guard._ **Oops.** “I mean, it just seems like the whole airhead playboy thing is for the tabloids. You’re too smart to take any of that seriously.”

He grinned now, relieved that I wasn’t on to _whatever it was_ that he was hiding. “Call it a business strategy,” he said with a light chuckle. “If my competitors think I’m an idiot I can better manipulate them into doing what I need. As for my spare time,” he shrugged, never once faltering in that decidedly dazzling grin, “I do what I need to take care of that image. It’s hardly _disappointing,_ after all. Good stress relief.” He threw a wink my way, but everything about this response seemed… _off._ Like I’d gotten too close to something. **Stop prying.**

“Well, I can’t argue that.” I rolled my shoulders, then my neck, just enough to get the blood flowing.

“And what about you? What do _you_ do for fun?”

“Oh, nothing even remotely interesting or exciting.” My DVR full of _Scrubs_ suddenly seemed so lackluster. “Honestly, most of my time is spent working. I do have a lab to get up and running, after all.”

He leaned back in his chair, grumbling. “See, this is why I invited you out next week. If all you do is work, you’re gonna burn yourself out.”

“I assure you, Mister Wayne,” I said, resting my chin on my folded hands, “I have enough fire in me for a long, long time.” Something about his returning smile tensed something deep in my gut, like a muscle that hadn’t been flexed in quite some time. Maybe the caffeine was finally kicking in. “Besides, when would I find the time for fun when there’s so much to be done? Not to sound like a savior or savant, but the people of Gotham need me. Who am I to rest among such suffering?” _What was that, that change in his eyes? Had I said something wrong?_ **No, I’d said something very much right. Nothing else could explain that determined look.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im about to move so if im updating things weird thats why


	6. Pianos and Courtyards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reanna attends the fundraiser, and finally gets tipsy enough to relax.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ┬┴┬┴┤(･_├┬┴┬┴

“You have _got_ to do something about your hair, Re.”

I stared into the mirror, trying to adjust to my appearance. When Brie got hold of the idea of me going to a black-tie fundraiser, she’d gone all out, clearing my schedule for the whole day and the morning after, “Just in case,” she had said with a wink. I groaned, going to put my face in my hands before remembering all the effort she’d put into my makeup. “Do I have to? Buns can be elegant.”

She rolled her eyes, pulling the pins and clips from my hair. “The point is to do something different, something _fun._ ” My hair fell down, curled gently away from my face and into soft swirls by my neck and shoulders.

“This is fine. It’s different, and it’s effortless. _Please?_ ”

“Hmmm… no. Let’s try _this…_ ” She stuck only a few pins back, gathering the top half of my hair to twist into a knot at the back of my head, but letting the rest fall down to frame my face. Brie stepped back, hands together and resting on her mouth, eyes glinting. She looked exquisitely proud of herself, and I had to admit that it was warranted. It made for a soft look, and paired nicely with the deep green off-the-shoulders dress she had pulled me into. Something she'd done was enhancing my eyes, making them seem bigger and bringing out the green specks among the brown. “Oh! I almost forgot this,” she said, reaching around my shoulders to clasp a necklace, a heavy chain with a large polished stone resting just below the dip between my clavicles. “Can’t wear that dress without a necklace, of course. It's, um… it’s my grandmother’s.” I turned to her, mouth falling open to protest. “Don’t worry, don’t worry. She’d want it to go with an outfit as beautiful as this. Just remember to actually bring it back.” Her teasing was met with my vehement promise to return it the next night, despite her assurances that she wasn’t worried about it. “Besides,” she laughed, “I’d have lent it to you ages ago. I’m _so_ glad you’re taking a night off. You deserve it.”

The clenched pit in my stomach disagreed. It seemed to be a waste, as I could have been organizing supply chains to the lab or helping a client tonight. Instead I was wasting it, bleeding it away for some party. Everyone knows that fundraisers don’t do much, not when the elites are involved. Pledging money to a cause wasn’t exactly like giving it to them directly.

_Then why did you agree?_ I **know** why, I shouldn’t keep torturing myself over it.

I was summarily launched into a cab, and had to look away from the cabbie’s shocked eyes when Brie showed him the address. The ride was silent, uncomfortably slow. I didn’t know how to conduct myself in this type of situation. I was used to keeping in the background, performing my duties, and then _leaving._ Hanging around, getting others to focus on my presence was _not_ my specialty. And the thought of clinging to Bruce all night was cringeworthy, at best. At least Brie was willing to text me through it all, one good tether to normalcy.

The cab stopped in front of a wide-set building, not squat but sprawling. Wings with proud marble arcades, angled roofs almost making it look Grecian. The driveway was cobbled, and the clicking of my heels against the small stones made a pleasant sound. Were those… fairy lights? They lead into the main doors, both of which had been propped open. Gentle chatter and the clinking of glasses met my ears before I even stepped inside. This large foyer, brilliantly lit with several large central chandeliers, magnified those sounds, funneling them outside. Inside, however, it was pleasantly quiet, the soft hum of conversation and piano music calming my jangled nerves. I snagged an hors d'oeuvre off a passing tray on the way to the bar, thanking whatever god was out there for the open bar signs. I wouldn’t make it through this evening entirely sober, I was far too out of place for that. I settled for a nice moscato, nothing too heavy for this early in the evening. A hand on my shoulder had me spinning around, curious.

“Miss Web! Laura Dermon, head of Gotham’s Women’s Resource Agency. I hear you’ve been doing some amazing work with my people.”

“Oh! I’m glad to help, of course. Anything at all I can do, I’m there.” This woman was the one I’d been trying to get in touch with through Meredith Hale. Starting with their outreach coordinator, that seemed like a good way to change things. Most of their outreach had been aimed at those who were already actively seeking out support and resources, which left a large proportion of women out of the loop who didn’t have access to or knowledge about what was available to them.

“I hear you have some interesting takes about how we can better reach our client base. Would you like to sit down?” She gestured to a close table, white tablecloth laden with candlesticks and a beautiful floral arrangement. I had begun pulling out a chair for myself when that now-familiar rumble hit my breastbone.

“Now, Laura, you can’t monopolize Miss Webb right off the bat. Awful rude, to steal her away right as she gets here.” Bruce’s teasing was met with a chastened smile, and a promise to return to me later tonight, and then Miss Dermon was gone, disappeared into the masses of well-dressed persons swirling about the foyer.

“Thanks,” I breathed out. I hadn’t been prepared to discuss a rather unformed outreach strategy tonight.

“Of course. This is supposed to be your night out, to relax. You do know how to relax, don’t you?” I laughed, and took a demonstrably large swig of my wine. “Alright, alright. Have you tried the curried shrimp?” A member of the waitstaff seemed to appear beside his elbow, summoned by the mention of his tray.

“I won't forgive you if this is spicy, Wayne,” I said, delicately grabbing one of the yellow-cast prawn. He gave a light chuckle, and sipped from his glass as I bit into it. It had a kick, but not enough for me to die from the overload. “And I suppose you put together the menu?”

“I’m a man of specific taste, you know.” He struck a pose, sticking his chest out and placing a fist on his mid back. He held it until I fell apart laughing, and he joined in. “I like it when you laugh.” It was quiet, so soft I almost missed it. I indulged in my habit of avoiding his eyes, too tender and sad for my cynical nature. _He’s a playboy, remember? He’s just trying to make nice so your work goes smoothly._ Or he’s just genuinely nice. **It doesn’t matter.**

“So, when does the actual fundraising start, anyways? I know it’s not all food and wine.”

“Well, my dear,” he said, placing one hand around my shoulders to guide me around, “it’s about to. Excuse me a moment.” He stepped up to a podium, centered in front of the sweeping staircases at the back.

“Ladies, gentlemen, and those of you that know better,” he paused to shoot a smile and a wink at someone I couldn’t see. “It’s about that time. Time for us to pledge what we can in order to help our beloved city and those that struggle to prosper…” I let his enunciation fade out, preferring to listen to it boom around the room, echoing just slightly around those chandeliers. I wasn’t aware I had leaned against a pillar until I stepped back up to grab some sort of pastrami wrap from a passing tray. I leaned back against it, feeling the soft arches of granite across my shoulderblades. There seemed to be a back and forth with the podium going on, but I was too wrapped up in the sound of voices and the flashing glimmer of the lights to pay it much heed.

Something Bruce was saying finally caught my attention. “... and the donation pots are out in the courtyard. You have until midnight to make a contribution, so let’s get it rolling, folks!” That seemed to be the end of it, with him hopping off of his podium and mingling. I watched him for a time, content to sit back and watch him shake hands, flashing that brilliant smile. Until it was directed at me, those gleaming eyes and upturned lips, and he was subtly waving me over. _Oh lord._

“...have to see what we have going down on there. Why don’t you take some time and come down? I’m sure that you’ll find it an intriguing opportunity…” Ah, so it was my turn to play savior. A group of elderly men had practically pinned him between two other groups, no doubt pitching some sort of investment or project.

“Oh, _Bruce,_ there you are. Sorry, gentlemen,” I said, pushing into the group to grab his arm and give it a firm tug, “but I’ve got to steal him away for a while. You understand.” I flashed my brightest smile, trying to be apologetic about it. When we were a safe distance away, I let go of his arm, allowing myself to deflate from whatever persona had just taken over.

“Thanks,” he said, dragging a hand through his hair. It left it ruffled, splayed in such a way that I had to resist the charming temptation of sweeping the black locks back into place. **Dammit.**

“Tough crowd?”

He turned to me at last. “They’ve been trying to get me to invest for months. I don’t know how to convince them that I’m not interested.”

“Keep me close, Wayne, and I can promise to run interference.” I finished the last of my wine, swiftly swapping glasses from yet another expressionless waiter.

“That can be arranged.” He held out his arm, and for the first time tonight I had a proper companion. He ghosted us across the floor, shortening his strides enough so I could keep up even with my increasingly cursed shoes. He had me laughing the whole time, pointing out interesting persons and their fascinating personal drama. _This_ woman was sleeping with _her_ husband, but she didn’t care because _she_ was busy having an affair with _this_ gentleman’s wife. I don’t know how he knew such intricate details, or maybe he was just making it all up for my benefit.

Perhaps an hour later and half a dozen passes across the floor, we stopped at the piano, an enormous white and metal thing. We both sat on the little bench at my insistence, popping my heels to the floor with a soft clatter the moment my weight was off of them for extra emphasis.

“Do you play?” I asked, spinning around and tucking my legs beneath me so I was perched on my half of the bench.

“Er- I don’t think--”

“That’s alright, just, uh.” I swung my head towards him, sucking in a shallow breath when I found his eyes inches from my own. “Just don’t laugh when I mess up.” The ridiculousness made us melt into sniggers for the hundredth time that evening, no doubt helped along by the alcohol.

My fingers were shaky, and I had to restart the song a few times. “It’s been years since my lessons. I think, though…” And I had it, the right opening chord. The rest came naturally, years of abandoned muscle memory springing to the surface almost effortlessly. I started humming the lyrics. It helped keep the timing right, instead of rushing through the melody. I thought Bruce was bored until his familiar rumble sent goosebumps down my arms.

_“Oh mother... tell your children… not to do what I have done…”_

I joined in on the next line. _“Don’t spend your life in sin and misery_ …” We finished that verse, and I thought that he was going to continue singing through the song with me. I was wrong. My voice warbled when I realized my voice was ringing out alone. _Traitorous bastard._ But I pushed through, not about to be cowed into sudden silence. One verse, and then the finale. The notes faded out, and I was thankful that my hair was loose for once, as it was concealing my blush. I stopped breathing when I heard applause. Turning my head revealed a good chunk of the room clapping and smiling at me.

“ _Looks like you’ve started a queue._ ” It was whispered into my ear, and I had only time to stoop to grab my shoes before I was pulled away and the piano resumed plunking. I had indeed formed a loose group of people seeming to wait for the now-empty piano. “I don’t think you’ve seen the courtyard, yet, hmm?” He pulled me along by one hand, away from that mass of people. _Thank god._ He led me between those twin staircases, through a hallway, and suddenly we were in the open air. It was crisp, just cold enough to send a shiver of alertness through me. 

It was square, as near as I could tell, and edged with colorful flowered bushes. If I thought the lighting out front looked like fairy lights, then this must be some sort of decadent, fantastical baroque painting. Little candles, a multitude of golden lights, glimmering torches, it seemed like everywhere was lit with some sort of ethereality. I paid almost no attention to the multitude of giant vases in the center, held at an angle so that their narrow openings were about chest-level. I didn’t much care about them, too wrapped up in tracing along the edges, touching the soft bellies of lilies and rose petals and thick waxy leaves of snake plants. 

“I knew it,” Bruce said, waving me over to the vase he was peering into. The label around the neck was printed in swirling script so fancy I could barely make it out. 

__The Gotham Academy of Music and Performance_ _

“Looks like you made a good impression on them,” he said, nudging me in the side playfully. 

I laughed. “Or a _really, really_ bad one.” He didn’t laugh with me. I shrugged, and stalked through the grass, holding the skirt of my dress up so it wouldn’t get wet from tiny droplets of dew hiding under leaf blades. 

“Why do you do that?” 

I looked up from the stone bench half covered in ivy tendrils that I had found, brain lagging due to the empty glasses I had handed off to the waitstaff. “Hmm?” 

“Why do you think less of yourself than what you clearly are?” 

I had climbed up on the bench now, hand resting on a decorative pillar for balance. “I’m afraid I don’t know what you mean, Mister Wayne.” I let go of the pillar, and began walking along its length, arms lifted from my sides for optimum balance. _Stop being childish and pay attention._

“I _mean,_ ” he said, offering me a hand to hop down, “why don’t you appreciate the qualities you have?” I started to protest, but his hand hadn’t let go, and in fact had begun spinning me around him. “Listen. You’re absurdly intelligent, an entrepreneur, a fantastic doctor, the care you put into your patients is unrivaled. I’ve never met someone so dedicated, no one speaks a word against you, and…” he paused to spin me around one last time, fast enough to make my dress flare. “...and you’re gorgeous.” The yard was spinning, and I had to plop back down onto the hard bench. _What on earth?_

Bruce sat next to me, and I _singularly_ and _solely_ attributed the red in his cheeks to a combination of his own empty glasses and the brisk air. His closeness was attributed to my own lightheadedness and misperceptions. “I guess…” I picked at the edge of my skirt, finally adjusting to the spinning having stopped. “I guess I think that modesty is the best policy. If I go on about how great I am at things and I’m capable of so much, there might come a day when I can’t deliver on those promises. I don’t like disappointing people.” 

I looked up when he took my hands in his, warm and soft and completely covering my own. “Have you considered that you’re capable of living up to those promises?” 

Looking into his eyes like this, with them sparkling with a million tiny lights, with the way he was looking at me, this was dangerous. _And I didn’t particularly care._

My attention was completely shattered when everything exploded into grey smoke, swirling clouds that blocked out all sight. **Oh _fuck._**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ༼ つ ͡° ͜ʖ ͡° ༽つ  
> clíffhángérre


	7. The Aftermath

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second half of the cliffhanger

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is long enough to be two chapters lmao

The smoke seemed to be coming from every direction. Thick, weighty tendrils of blue-grey refused to settle, and instead hung in the air like some dark Van Gogh piece. Was it this smoke making it hard to breathe, or was it the commotion all around? Sounds of screaming, shattering glass, the sounds of gunfire made the world confusing, launching me back to an emotional cave I had thought myself freed from for years. **Hyperventilating is not an option.** Not with this smoke around, anyways.

“Bruce?” I called out for him, hands blindly reaching around, leading me first back to the empty bench, then in a direction I was sure led back into the foyer. The sharp pain of glass embedding itself in my feet told me I’d reached the center of the courtyard, vases smashed to oblivion. God _damn_ it, why didn’t I keep my shoes with me?

I had just begun retracing my steps when something hit my shoulder, heavy and metal and biting through my skin. I paid no mind to the strain of my vocal chords when I ripped the thing from me, wiggling the apparatus back and forth to unhook the barbs embedded maybe half an inch deep. One more scream in this clamor wouldn’t make a difference. The thing seemed to be some sort of grappling hook, but the chord meant to retract it had been cut, like it had been severed mid-launch. At least whoever was doing this wasn’t attacking me directly. I dropped it with a deep _thunk,_ and began slowly feeling my way towards the wall, looking with increasing desperation for the door that led back, back to the others. I’d have been much faster if not for the razor pain in the soles of my feet and the wobbling of the world. How much of that was my own fear, I wondered, how much the drink?

The smoke was less thick inside, almost constrained to the courtyard. It was still hard to breathe, but I was no longer gasping for air. Most people seemed to be fleeing, running and tripping to the double doors at the front, no longer propped open. They paid no mind to the bodies in the corners, shaking and wailing.

The piano. That beautiful monolith of white edges and shining steel had been reduced to a pile of smoking splinters. _I’d been sitting next to a bomb just a few minutes ago._ It was clear from the pattern of debris and the way that the wall was charred, that it had been inside, nestled somewhere along steel strings and sturdy wood. Everything seemed to slow, like the foyer had been submerged in gelatin. Sounds were muffled, distorted by the ringing in my ears. It was like my mind was a mass of live wires, cut ends sparking but ultimately making no connections.

A strangled scream pulled me free from my gelatinized state, and everything was moving normally again, almost too fast for my straggling brain. That awful sound had come from a few feet away, from a woman laying against the wall. Her dress, a light blue that I’d adored during this party, was scorched and crumbling away from her hip, which nestled a baseball-size splinter of wood, embedded along the inside of her pelvic wall.

“Can you move?”

The screaming did not abate.

“I’m going to help you outside. Let me know if we need to stop.” I was talking more for my benefit than hers. I don’t think she could really understand much anyways, half out of her mind with shock and pain already. Getting her upright and supporting her weight was easier before we had to leave the wall. She could barely limp along with one leg, and I hadn’t even removed the glass from my feet. I grit my teeth through it step by step, pushing and pushing until I nearly fell over when her weight shifted. Another man, someone I didn’t recognize had grabbed her other arm, and pulled it over his shoulders. I didn’t offer thanks, just kept a steady pace forward, until the cool air was biting into my skin once more, cobblestones digging into my flesh in a way I was slowly getting accustomed to.

“Here,” the man said, indicating a bench not far from the entrance. We sat her gently, not that it mattered. She’d fully passed out before we were even out of the doorway.

“Go check to see if anyone else needs help. I’ll call an ambulance.” He nodded, turning to jog back inside. I put pressure around the hunk of wood, my other hand reaching for my phone. My conversation with the operator was automatic, almost autonomous of my movements. The communication between healthcare professionals was a language all its own, and I was glad that that section of my brain was still functioning and sterile. I tore her dress, not bothering to waste time to find a knife or scissors. I tied her dress under her leg to preserve some of her dignity, but tore the rest of the skirt into strips. Triage was not my specialty, but I’d be damned to the lowest ring of hell before I let anyone I could help go without. At least the wood splinter was blocking the flow of blood, and she wouldn’t bleed out before paramedics arrived. Externally, anyways.

“Everyone else is out.” That man was reporting back to me, out of breath and hands dirty.

“Good, see if you can find me a towel and water.” I could tell that he didn’t like being ordered around but I paid it no mind. He’d signed up as nurse, like it or not.

The next few minutes were uneventful, if anything. No one else was left in the foyer or courtyard, and flashing lights soon took over the scene. My rapid-fire rundown of the woman’s condition was accepted without the paramedics second-guessing my analysis, and she was loaded up into the ambulance in a swift moment. No one else had been hurt, it seemed, besides a few scrapes and bruises and embedded glass.

“You’re bleeding.” I whirled around, yanked from the blank-eyed stupor I’d settled into.

“Bruce. Where have you been?” He was rumpled around the edges, but otherwise he seemed fine. “What’s going on?”

“ _You’re bleeding._ ” I was. Four lines oozed from equidistant points around my left shoulder, staining my dress in an almost tie-dye pattern.

“I’m fine. What happened? Where did you go?”

“I couldn’t see anything, I was just trying to find my way out. Are you sure you’re okay?” I had sat on that same bench, finally feeling the burn in my feet as the adrenaline faded. I picked at the glass, pulling out pebbles and shards of it from the sensitive flesh, red-smeared but still throwing around light.

“I said I’m _fine._ Can you grab my shoes? I think they’re still in the courtyard.” One foot was almost free of glass, just slivers that could only be extracted with warm water and tweezers remaining.

“Absolutely not.” I looked up at him, eyes squinted against the glare of police lights. “There’s no way you’re walking in those heels with your feet in that state.” My protests were entirely ignored, and he easily picked me up, almost effortlessly.

“Don’t _manhandle_ me, Wayne, I’m perfectly capable of--”

“What is it you’re always telling me? Be kind to my body and it’ll heal better? Let’s start with not mincing your feet.” My struggling ceased but my grumbling did not when I finally settled into his arms, a laughable pass at bridal style. I itched at my shoulder, trying to feel around if there was anything particularly important damaged. Something was off.

“Have you seen my necklace?”

“I’ll ask the police to look for it. Let’s get you taken care of.” He was walking us towards a black car pulled in behind the ambulance and police cars. It took me a moment to identify Alfred in the driver’s seat through the tinted windows.

“It’s not mine, actually, and I need to make sure--”

“I’ll take care of it.” It had an air of finality to it, and I only registered why when I was set gently into the backseat.

“Wait, where are you going?”

“I believe,” Alfred said, making my head turn to the front, “Master Wayne is attempting to ease away the required procedurals.” I suppose he was right, with the way that he was talking to the police. Something rattled around my head, a half-remembered knowledge outside of my field. Weren’t we supposed to be giving statements, taking inventory, talking through what had happened? I didn’t want to deal with all that, and was thankful when my eyes traced just one figure walking back toward the car. The rain arrived just before he did, just sprinkling enough to be a constant sound.

“Let’s go home.” He shut the door behind him, and didn’t bother at all with a seatbelt. I tried to focus my breathing, but gave a sharp yelp when he lifted my feet into his lap. “Sorry, sorry.” He began picking, trying to remove the glass with his fingers.

“Stop, stop, you’re going to get blood on your suit.” He gave me a look, half rolling his eyes and half apologetic.

“At least wait until we can soak them in water.”

“If you insist.” He removed his hands, and I shivered. I hadn’t felt chilly until now, but I suppose that’s why they say shock is so dangerous. “Are you cold?” I gave a shrug, unfocused eyes staring out the window as that lovely Grecian building faded away, glowing with red and blue. “Take this.”

“Hmm?” He had removed his jacket, and was holding it out to me. “Thanks.” It was warm, and smelled like his cologne and dust, and was absolutely enormous on me. The ends of the arms were completely limp, as my hands only went to about halfway between the elbow and the hem. It was his fault if it got bloodstained, he’d offered it over in the first place.

“Are you alright?” I pulled my gaze from the window yet again, still unfocused and strained.

“I told you I’m fine, how many times do I have to say it?”

“You know what I mean.” I pulled the jacket around me, and crossed my arms. I felt like I was shrinking in from the middle of my chest, cold and clenched and not quite shaking. I didn’t say anything for a moment.

“I will be. Let’s just get this fucking glass out.” I was starting to get tired, I think. The pain was mostly a dull ache now, and I just wanted to crash and sleep this off. _Typical, to run back to your old trauma coping mechanisms. Sleep won’t help._

The rest of the drive was almost silent, just the sound of the engine and rain, and I must have dozed off at some point. The door behind me opened, and I had a moment of panic when I was lifted up. _It was just Bruce._ “I gotcha,” he mumbled, nodding his head at Alfred to close the car door.

Whether sleep or shock was distorting my sense of time, the walk seemed to take hours, with my head nodding along his shoulder and feet dangling. Some distant thought passed through my head, some far-away concern over Alfred having to mop up the trail of red drops we were leaving behind. I woke up fully when I was set on a counter. A kitchen island, it seemed.

“So is this where you try and do my job, Wayne?” He had sat himself on a stool between my legs, shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows and a bucket of hot water and cloths by his dusty shoes.

“As best as I can, Miss Webb.” I gave a weak hiss when he wrapped a warm wet cloth around one foot. “Or I can ask Alfred. He’s got more experience with this sort of thing, if you’d like me to ask him.”

“This is fine. I can do most of it myself anyways.”

“Compromise. Alfred can work on this, and I’ll take a look at that shoulder.” He stood, circling around my side, making my head turn to look up at him. “You shouldn’t be straining yourself and calling it nothing.”

“This _is_ nothing, and it’s not a strain. You know my first patient was myself. I’m more than able to patch myself up.”

“I know. But you shouldn’t have to.” He paused his fingers, which had been gently peeling the sleeve of my dress away. He was looking at me now, one hand on the side of my head, the base of his thumb cradling the dip below my cheekbone. “I’m sorry about tonight.”

 _Damn my need to look away._ “Don’t be. Shit happens. Just tell Alfred to grab my shit and get in here before I do this myself.” I’d taken to leaving a small batch of supplies at the Manor, given how often I’d been called here. I cleared it with him and Alfred at first, of course, and it was precisely because of situations like this.

It took about half an hour for my feet to be declared officially glass free. It was quiet mostly, just punctuated with the occasional dry quip or exclamation of pain. My shoulder took only a few minutes, just an insert of skinfill and hefty dose of shriveglue for each clean hole. My feet ended up with about ten pounds of gauze, wrapped loosely into little clubs by a tutting butler. I rolled my eyes and complained about the quality of care, but they only joked about having to endure their help until I could redo it myself tomorrow. Ah well, at least they were well-padded enough to let me walk on them without much pain.

“See, I’m fine.” I took a few extra steps around the kitchen for emphasis, showing my even stride. I went to run my hand through my hair, then remembered the pins. They were quickly yoinked out, and my hair was free for finger-combing. The still-wavy strands still smelled vaguely like acrid smoke, and I made myself focus on other things. Like the way Alfred had disappeared, and the way Bruce was leaning on his forearms, his own hair falling into his eyes. “What?”

He was staring at me, inscrutable as always. It took him a long minute to speak, and I could tell some gear or another was spinning in his head. “You’ve had a long night.”

“We both have, I’d say.” I mimicked his pose, leaning my forearms atop the wooden dining chair Alfred had been sitting on.

“I heard what you did, Reanna. Most people ran away screaming, but you stayed and helped. That can’t have been easy.”

I yawned, and rested my chin on my forearms. “It was decidedly not. But I couldn’t just leave her there, Bruce. She would have died. Hell, she might be dead now for all I know. Well I guess when you promise a night of excitement, you deliver, huh?” He returned my tight smile, suppressing a yawn of his own. “Wanna take bets if I can get a cab home at this time of night?”  
He quirked an eyebrow at my tired grin, almost affronted. “Why don’t you just sleep here? I have plenty of beds, take your pick.” He waved his hand dismissively, like it was no trouble at all. “And no,” he said, laughing and rubbing his eyes, “that came out way more suggestive than it was meant to be. I just want to make sure you’re alright tonight.”

It seemed genuine, and sleep was pulling at the edges of my eyes again, making it harder and harder to keep them open. I didn’t have anything to do tomorrow, oh god _tomorrow,_ and Brie had stayed over at my place to watch my dog. Showing up like this, especially if she’d seen the late news, would send that girl to an early grave.

“Alright,” I mumbled, more than ready to be horizontal.

“I can get you something to sleep in, if you’d like.”

“That sounds lovely, thanks.” Eyes half-closed, I followed him, through about four different hallways. Something soft plopped into my hands, and I had to peel open my eyes and pull my head upright to see what it was. A soft cotton shirt, some plaid pyjama pants. I mumbled my thanks again, just about giving up and sleeping against the hallway wall before a hand on my uninjured shoulder pulled me back into consciousness.

“Bedroom.” A finger was pointing behind me, and a door creaked open. Instead of heading through it, I leaned against Bruce, resting my head at the bottom of his chest until I felt his hand support my back.

“Promise me you’ll sleep, too?” He seemed wired, though I knew he had to be exhausted.

“Promise.” I picked myself off of him, nearly stumbling through the doorway.

“Goodnight.” I heard no response until the door had almost clicked shut.

“ _Goodnight, Reanna_.”

I stripped, and put on the clothes he had given me. It was ridiculous, how huge they were on me, and I was still smiling by the time the sheets were pulled back and I had clambered into them.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can i get a yeehaw for the tenderness babes


	8. Nice to Meet You, Dick

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reanna wakes up and goes in search of Bruce. She finds more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hahaha college is killing me and i know this is confusing trust me i have a whole plot coming

Waking up was a second of bliss, the briefest of moments where everything was fuzzy and grey and peaceful before pain and aches and memories of last night to come rushing to the forefront of my mind. My feet felt like hot, swollen stumps, the various cuts and bruises protesting against the rest of the skin, which was pale in between blue bruises and the red of inflammation. A clock on the wall revealed it to still be before six in the morning, and a peek behind the thick curtain revealed the desaturated blue of a dewy, foggy morning. My hair _still_ smelled like smoke, and the bathroom attached to this room seemed inviting enough. I didn’t look in the mirror, but found the products lining the shower pleasant, and gentle enough not to dehydrate my skin or interfere with my skinfill. I stripped, and removed the gauze and wrappings from my feet, and stepped onto smooth stone tile. The water was hot, steaming in the cool air and invigorating. I kept it short, but lingering was so tempting, so so hard to leave to return to Bruce’s spare pajamas to assess myself in the mirror after carefully rewrapping my tender feet.

The half-moons of grey had somewhat disappeared from under my eyes, but I found my hair to be more than annoying, tiny droplets from the ends of strands running toward the floor and sticking hair to my neck at odd angles. This is why I always put it in a bun, to keep it from interfering with my vision and drying into odd bends. Better to have it contained and released when I knew I could tune out the sensation.

I knew I was hypervigilant. Growing up in the environment I did, I never _wasn’t,_ but after the commotion of last night and the sensations of pain and the almost itch of healing flesh, I was all too aware of my surroundings at the moment. I was dreading the inevitable misreading of my upcoming interactions with Wayne and Alfred. I picked at a stray thread in the shirt, trying to empty the images in my mind of Bruce last night, close to my face and eyes reflecting the fairy lights and glass chandeliers. That golden brown gave such a sense of warmth, the relaxation of his posture when he looked at me gave this sense of security that made me feel like he wouldn’t try to push me too far, that he understood the need to retreat and lick your wounds.

I found him in that kitchen again, him and Alfred and **someone I had never seen before** angled toward a television I had somehow failed to notice last night. The news was on, projecting images of people leaving the building from last night with a yellow banner proclaiming _Riddler Claims Fundraiser Profits_ and in a smaller font on a second line, _four injured and one dead_.

I gave up reading, attention focused too intently on the fourth party in the room. A boy, just barely bordering on adulthood. Sixteen, maybe seventeen. The dark hair and brooding expression told me all I needed to know about his place here, but _was I supposed to mention it?_ I was still technically under the confines of a seeming indefinite contract with Wayne for my services, so he and Alfred knew I wouldn’t discuss anything I saw here. I wonder if this was vulnerable for them, especially given how relaxed their postures were around each other, and it occurred to me: they didn’t know I was awake yet.

And so I zipped around Alfred, still absorbing the information from the television screen, to the pot of coffee steaming on the counter. Grabbing my necessary additions seemed to pop some sort of bubble of tension that arose when my presence was made known. I tucked myself up into a kitchen chair, cradling my mug and letting my feet hang.

“So I see we made the morning news.”

Bruce let out an almost imperceptible breath. “Yes, we did. Not surprising, given how much was taken out of those vases. Care to guess a figure?”

I didn’t return his look, and instead kept my attention on the steadiness of my hands as I drank from this unfamiliar mug. Too much cream, too little sugar, but grounding and hot and familiar all the same. I shook my head, settling further into the chair and warming my fingers around the ceramic. “Not with this hunch I have that says it came on before I came in. Four injured and one dead, huh?”

I couldn’t read what he was thinking. That damn _mask_ that popped up whenever we weren’t alone, clamping down on his brows and jaw. “Yeah. That woman is fine, by the way, someone just got trampled after the bomb went off. Nothing anyone could have done.” Was he evaluating _me_?

“Well, I’m glad last night wasn’t spectacularly deadly. Seems you’ve got to step your game up, Wayne.” A responding snort from that boy had my eyes flashing over to him. _The same pattern of scars and bruising that Wayne boasted peeked out from under the collar of his shirt, but his eyes didn’t have the same dark quality, like a shadow deep beneath the surface._ **Stop that.** I resigned myself to my coffee, which unfortunately didn’t last much longer.

“I’m Richard, by the way--”

“ _Dick…_ ”

“Hi. I’m Reanna, since we’re apparently being some sort of poorly introduced.” I flashed a look at Bruce before standing to place my mug in the sink and offer my hand. “Reanna Web, Celebrity Personal Image and Health Manager for Mister Wayne. Nice to meet you, Dick.” He seemed amused, barely constraining paroxysms of laughter behind a polite smile as he shook my hand, fingers warm and calloused like his… father’s? uncle’s? Really, the resemblance was uncanny.

“Richard Grayson. Legal ward of _Mister Wayne._ ” He said it oddly, like there was a joke everyone else was missing. He was going to say more, too, but I was already retreating, patting Bruce on the shoulder on my way back to that bedroom. I needed to collect my dress and phone, and check in with Brie. I sincerely doubted that she was awake, but on the off-chance that she had seen the news I should be there to ensure her of both of our safety. I had to guarantee there was no connection to her family, after all. That would be _beyond disastrous,_ but I doubted any possibility given the Riddler’s involvement.

My phone had several texts, check-ins from when she fed my dog and went to bed. Nothing to indicate she was even awake yet, thank god. A large hand on my shoulder had me looking up away from my phone.

“Everything alright?” _Soft as always, Mister Wayne._

“Of course. I just needed to make sure my P.A. wasn’t losing her mind, in case she’d seen the news. Um.” I bit my lip, straining against what I had to do. “Bruce, listen--”

“He’s not my son, you know.”

“I’m sorry?”

There was no other word for it. He looked nervous, shoulders drooping and fingers fidgeting in front of his lower abdomen. “Dick. He’s not my son, but--”

“I don’t - that’s not even - listen. We have time to talk about that later, but right now I need to know what you told the police about me, especially about the necklace I was wearing.” I was gathering up my things, tolerance for his lagging track-switching waning with every tick of the grandfather clock in the hallway.

“Just that it was important that they find it and return it to me or you as soon as possible, and it wasn’t evidence. Reanna, why is a necklace so important?” He grabbed one elbow, just enough to get me to pause and look at him. “Why are you so freaked out by the police finding that necklace?” Fuck, what had given it away? Had my own mask fallen to the wayside?

“Listen, Bruce. I need you to trust me when I say it’s important that they don’t, but I can’t say why. Can you do that for me?” I had grabbed his opposite elbow, a pact and promise proposed by our parallel posture. “We both know my legal obligations, and I think we both know that I can’t ask you to do anything to break the law or contribute to someone else doing so, but we also both know that I know more than I let on. Do you agree?” He nodded, intrigued and on high-alert. “Good. Let’s leave it at I trust you to get shit done without hurting yourself too much, and I have to go inform _my_ legal ward that she might have to go into witsec again.”

He didn’t question that, just watched as I walked out the door, phone to order a cab in one hand and the sum of my things tucked under the opposite elbow. I approached Alfred, who was standing resolutely in the hallway outside the door leading to the kitchen, like he was expecting us back.

“I’m afraid I must apologize. I’ve asked him to do something stupid, but I trust that that’s something of a regular occurrence around here.” He didn’t give much of a response, just nodded, but I could tell that even though the apology was unexpected, it was welcome. I left through the adjacent hallway, the maze of the Manor having slowly become more of a map in my mind over time. I waited by the side door, composing an I’m-on-my-way-back text until my cab arrived.


	9. A Waiting Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reanna and Brie wait to hear back from Bruce.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not even gonna apologize for my lack of updates in this pandemic yall

Brie was in fact asleep when I arrived back at my apartment. Letting my sharky dog out the patio door was no problem, as it forestalled even any sleepy yipping. I didn’t want to wake her; she seemed so restful for once. She was always stressing about something, and not without reason. Like me, she had grown up with parents who treated her like a bullshit receptacle, except her mother happened to have different _influential ties_ than my father had. I didn’t know many details about it, unfortunately. She had emphasized that even though the trials were over when she was a young child, her family still had sway in corrupt police departments across the east coast and Canadian border through the Russian mob, and her desire to remain hidden from them spoke to something within me, I suppose. Four years ago she had been entrusted in my care as a Community Angel, ferreted away to Gotham City in the middle of the night by, presumably, another Community Angel. Not knowing was part of the whole protection of programs like that, but it weighed heavy on my mind as I untucked her hand from under her chin and pulled the couch blanket partly back into place, the cold air doing more to bring her to wakefulness than my gentle calls of her name. She had the same start we all did, the same jolt that we all _have_ that used to indicate pain or danger that a hefty chunk of chronic abuse or trauma survivors experience upon being woken. I would never pressure her to tell me anything specific of course, but there _had_ to be some way to help relieve some of the pressure of what she was carrying around, or at least to make the coming conversation easier.

“You look like a bum. Waitase- _whose clothes are those?_ ” She was waking up quickly, already sitting up and picking at the tee and sweats and smiling like a kid discovering Santa came while they were asleep. Oh, she thought that I had spent the night with someone after the fundraiser, she didn’t seem to have a clue that anything was at all out of the ordinary until her eyes landed on my wrapped feet. The way the smile practically dripped off her face, the way her eyebrows cinched together felt like a gut punch, nearly knocking the wind out of my explanation.

I told her the facts, of course. That solid silent agreement siblings, even adoptive ones, hold to: read between the lines. I implied the things I really didn’t want to or couldn’t say out loud, and she had a plethora of questions. I answered almost all of them. Two hours, a change of clothes, breakfast, and a panic attack later, Brie asked me the one question I couldn’t answer in my usual factual manner.

“Do you really trust him to get it back without anyone finding it? I know he’s capable of bending certain… restrictions on things, but for some reason I doubt that I should _trust_ a trillionaire with the recovery of precious jewelry from a crime scene. He’s not exactly the subtle type, and I remember how extensive my mom’s networks were.”

I sat back in my chair, considering. The consideration, of course, was done _around_ Bailey, who took this opportunity to jump in my lap and bite at my ears. Furious pets seemed to activate her shark-like tonic immobility, and then I got an answer out. “I think that he can get a weird amount of shit done. I wouldn’t be surprised if he pulled it off, but you also know we prepare to operate based on the worst possible scenario, and that’s if he doesn’t. Bruce has this-this _ability_ to _make shit happen,_ ” I paused for a half-second to make knowing eye contact before continuing, “and I don’t know how far it extends, but I get the feeling that he’ll come through.” I released the ears between my hands, and the sack of fur and teeth was off the chair immediately, tackling her toys behind one side of the couch. I looked back up at Brie. She seemed somewhat calmed, but there was still that resolute quality that told me she knew she could do it, trusting Bruce to procure her only remaining tie to her family.

Having finally resolved the conversation for the morning, we separated for the day’s activities. She called her handlers and contacts from her own college-town apartment, and I took care of paperwork for ordering various laboratory supplies. I skipped lunch, despite urging her to eat something and promising that I would do the same. I didn’t mean to, my alarm went off and instead of hitting the _five-minute snooze_ button, I hit the _off_ button and worked through my break time. My stomach protested, but I didn’t feel particularly hungry. Mostly I felt worried about Brie and Bruce. One was facing down the possible uprooting of her life, and the other was risking bodily harm in order to prevent that, not to mention the bodily harm Brie might face from her brothers in retaliation for her testimony in their mother’s trial. The idea of eating on top of the sick, burning feeling made me queasy, so I doubt that I would have eaten anyway.

Coming back home was a relief, if a small one. For now, I was done distracting myself with busywork for my own career advancement. Now was time to begin worrying, as hours and hours had passed since I’d talked to either of my Bs. Brie had confirmed that there was still activity within the police force, and that knowledge had been sitting like concrete at the bottom of my stomach. Bruce had yet to contact me at all, no texts or calls from Alfred. After failing to relax myself with a spirited tug-of-war over a new, already degrading rope, I resolved to call Alfred myself for any sort of updates, good or bad. The feeling in my stomach hadn’t gone away, starting to give me that raw eaten-away feeling of an ulcer, so anything to alleviate the feeling of waiting.

The line picked up after five and a half rings. I had convinced myself to resign to bed, but the sharp _click_ jerked me back to the forefront of my worries. “Any news?” It came out breathy, and I mentally raged against my anxious frame.

“You’ve called at quite the time, Miss Web.” He sounded slightly annoyed, like he was handling too many things at once. He brushed away my apologies, instructing me briskly to arrive at Wayne Manor as soon as convenient and that apologies were unnecessary. I tried to get a word in edgewise, to get any more information at all, to get a sense of the situation, but he really was busy, going off the sound of thumping and yelling in the background. The abrupt end to the background noise and a slightly calmer, wheezy Alfred resumed the conversation. “Mister Wayne is on his way to deliver your necklace.” The call-end _snik_ rang in my ears, decisive and loud against the quiet pants now snuffling in the far corner.

He had really gotten it back? And that fast? _What had he done in these few hours? **Why was he coming here instead?**_

I don’t entertain at my apartment. It’s not that I don’t like people visiting or being intimate at all, it’s just far too revealing as someone who grew up with overly prying parents. I immensely dislike any feeling of being _watched_ , and having people in my one oasis of solitude and self-soothing was almost invasive. Brie doesn’t count, of course, as she’s essentially my little sister. But the idea of _Bruce_ coming here, that made me nervous, almost exposed. I didn’t think of him as judgmental, but the idea of being perceived in my natural habitat for once was still… slightly uncomfortable.

I make decent money, but the majority of it goes back into my business in the form of supplies, as well as donations to select groups around the city. My apartment is small, but only because I choose it to be so. I like a cozy, full place, with spaces filled with knickknacks and books and trinkets and plants. Not to mention Bailey, who makes it snow every time she walks into a room. How a medium-sized dog produces more hair than a husky, I will never understand. 

And so I did what I do when I’m nervous and waiting; I cleaned. Tapping on the roomba was no trouble, but loading dishes into the dishwasher to clear the sink was arduous as ever. Wiping down counters and tables took little time, and my bathroom was given a thorough once-over. I had begun rearranging fridge magnets out of boredom by the time Wayne arrived, and snapped out of cleaning mode as soon as I heard that knock on the door. There was that instant clench, that deep muscle recovering from atrophy that made its distracting presence known around Wayne. 

I didn’t bother checking the peephole, and opened the heavy metal door to a pathetic excuse of a patch-up. Medical tape was wrapped around both of his hands, and showed deep blue skin through the cross-crosses of adhesive. A rumpled shirt and pants obscured most of the damage, but I could tell that he’d taken quite a beating and changed quickly, judging from the uncoagulated blood around the cuts on his forearms, the glacial spread of red around the wrappings on his hands. He didn’t seem to have any major injuries that I could see, anyways. No punctures or burns or broken limbs. 

I suppose I had been silent thus far, just taking in his appearance and evaluating his state, because he took a small step forward, just enough so that the exquisite rumble in my breastbone would not spread beyond the bubble of our personal space. An arm against the door frame felt less imposing and more protective, like he was providing privacy with his body. 

_“I think it’s best if we have ourselves another little evening in, Reanna.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so sorry y'all have been waiting so long for a filler chapter, the next one has,, SO much plot I promise!!


	10. Momentary Tension, Abated

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce returns Brie's necklace, and meets Reanna's nastey dog.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> look I know I promised plot but it's the pandemic I've been home with my dog for two weeks I don't remember what the sun looks like

The fist clenched just above my head loosened just slightly, and there was a flash of silver chain, its bouncing arcs stilled quickly by the heavy jade pendant now swinging a few inches in front of my eyes. Unblemished, still shining, chain intact. The cement truck that my abdomen had become stilled, relaxing at the sight. And then my eyes were immediately focused beyond the pale green, back to that molten honey gaze.

“You’re going to let my dog out.” The contrast between my glare and tone must have been enough, as he was just surprised enough for me to snatch that heavy chain and whirl around to usher a near-ballistic Bailey outside. She was going bonkers as usual when she met someone new, but I wasn’t about to let her ruin his god-knows-how-expensive shoes with her pawing and licking to get at toes.

I set the necklace on the empty island counter, and pointed at my couch on my way to my supplies closet, already mentally organizing the order in which I would treat his injuries. I found him still standing, facing the wall. I had forgotten about my ‘art,’ a large canvas painting from a different era, a different universe entirely. Incompatible with this context, really, an inappropriate juxtaposition of my college artistic outlet and the tension of today coming to a head. I tried to ignore it, and focused instead on Bruce’s wide stance, the way his fists were clenched and shoulders tensed and low. He almost seemed to be humming, vibrating with energy despite his stillness. _Still running on adrenaline, then._

“Sit.” My command wasn’t acknowledged until I physically enforced it, maneuvering him down by his forearms. There was silence now as I spread my supplies, thick and heavy on my skin like an itchy sweater. “Are you going to tell me what happened, or am I gonna have to make it up in my head as we go along?” I looked up at him now, something telling me he was finally willing to meet my eyes again. I was right. There was that moment, expected now, as we paused to look and _understand_ , and then he was extending his forearms for me to begin unwrapping. It was a crude job, clearly done on-the-go and with as little material as possible, but it was effective. Gauze pads over the worst of the knuckle splitting, tape over the rest to hold it and the rest of his hands in place. Nothing broken, no tendons or ligaments torn, just bashed all to hell.

He began talking when I began cleaning the numerous skin tears, exactly the understanding that had passed between us a moment ago. The confidentiality factor applied to any of these meetings, of course, but I wasn't really on the clock, wasn’t really his _employee_ until I began undoing this kind of damage.

“I was followed back.”

“So I heard, on the phone.” He nodded, just slightly, holding himself back from clenching his damn jaw so much. At least he was finally starting to take some of my advice there.

“That doesn't happen often. Reanna.” He pulled one of his hands away, just enough to get me to look back up at him for a moment. “Why are you involved in the mafia?”

I sighed, and set the sterile stack of gauze back down. I couldn't expect much leeway myself if I didn’t start sharing some of my own secrets. “Do you know what a community angel is?” The unknowing double-blink response was almost comical, but I didn't feel like laughing. “It’s sort of a common name for it, but it’s called a lot of things by a lot of different groups. Say you had someone going into hiding who had nowhere to go, and they weren't safe by themselves or in police custody. How would you keep them safe?”

Bruce hummed, a deep, smooth sound that made me want to lean my head forward, let my ear graze his chest. “I would assume Witness Protection isn’t an option either, then. Just tell me, Re, I’m not particularly in the mood for games.” He was right. He hadn’t calmed, and he wasn’t any closer to letting me near those broken ribs.

I picked the gauze back up, and grabbed a hefty bottle of saline before opening my fat mouth again. “The idea behind it is that nobody consecutively knows anything in either direction. Someone gets them out, someone else helps change their identity, and eventually they get passed on to one of me. We’re all community angels, but I was called to look after Brie. I've been with her a long time, almost seven years, but--”

“But you still don’t know everything.” I glared a little as I stooped to pick up the bucket, now half full of garish pink water, and turned to take it to the sink.

“No, I don’t. And you know I hate that. I wish that I knew just a _little bit more_ , just enough to actually _help_ her for once.” I tossed the wet gauze mess into the sink after the bucket with a _smack_ and sat back beside him, new gauze and shriveglue already at the ready. “So to answer your question, Bruce, it’s because I care about her. I could have sent her off to another community angel after a few weeks or even after the first few fires she set, but--”

“Wait, _fires?_ ”

I paused, just for a moment. “Trauma does weird things to kids, okay? All she needed was for someone to be there for her, and to actually listen to what she was going through. Everyone does stupid things at fourteen, and after a few months we started bonding, Bruce, and I couldn’t send her away again, and--”

“I get it.” _What?_ “I’ve had Dick around for quite a while now, I get it.” I had almost entirely forgotten the boy I’d met this morning. I hummed back, snipping skinfill for a particularly deep cut across two of his left knuckles. My brain was tripping over itself trying to draw conclusions and negate them, and my tongue never bothered to play catch-up with any of it.

We stayed like that for a few minutes, just settling into the near silence as I worked on his hands and forearms. Soon those were treated, not made flawless, but treated for the night, and I had to move on to those ribs. His right side this time, seventh and eighth along the anterior curve. I don't remember even asking for his shirt to come off, only turning back and seeing purple and red splotches among the soft tan. The skin was thin over the bruising and swelling, and the shape of it along the purple almost looked like he fell or was pushed into something that stuck up. Quite painful, but I was long past marveling at his tolerance. The only indication that this wasn’t a walk in the park was the odd interruption in his breathing, which was slowly cycling back down to normal as I worked.

“Your adrenaline’s worn off. Do you want any coffee, Tylenol?” I was only half-paying attention, one hand tucking a bandage in and the other rubbing at my eye. Heat had returned to his hands, and his ribs had begun to grow warmer with inflammation as well. The coffee was purely for my benefit, was just extending the courtesy. He shook his head, and I went to grab myself a cup and a few pills for my ever-throbbing head.

Unfortunately, my kitchen is in full view of my porch, and my porch unfortunately comes with a shark who starts barking when she sees any movement at all. So after enduring her high-pitched whining and surprisingly resounding **boofs** while making my coffee, I decided to allow her the benefit of coming inside. On her leash, of course, wrapped firmly around my hand a half dozen times. She pulled against it, naturally, taking her awful stance to push against the ground and strain against her leash. I let her make her usual mess at her water bowl before coming back into my living room.

I don’t think Bruce was expecting that when I walked around the corner, because he jumped about a mile when he saw my disgusting little creature panting and scuttling toward him. “She’s been pretty good so far,” I said, grimacing when she took that as an indication to renew her efforts, “so I figured I’d let her meet you before she truly goes insane. There, you met him, now _come on._ ” She huffed, and I began the laborious process of hauling her back out to the porch to once more wait out her energy over a new person. With the door securely latched shut, I returned to my seat, already curling into the arm of the couch and cradling my sweet mug of energy. “Sorry about all that. Once she starts barking, it's either interact or go deaf early.”

There was a beat of silence, and then he was laughing, just two quick bursts of mirth before he was hissing and clutching his ribs. But he laughed, and my god, I knew tonight was going to end up alright, one way or another.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I say it every time but. More plot is coming. I am trash, and there's no such thing as trash day on ao3 babey
> 
> that being said i have Questions
> 
> ive been doodling a lot and was wondering if yall wanted to see some art im making for this
> 
> also there's a few scenes/mini-plot ideas I have for them so would anyone be interested in a standalone fic?


	11. Maxime Nocturnae Vigiliae

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bruce and Reanna finally get some sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me? writing in another three plot points for no good reason? you betcha!

"So you were followed. I would assume back from the police station?” _Oh, sweet creamy bliss._ I’m a sucker for fancy coffee, but nothing beats a nice homemade mug.

“A warehouse, actually, south of the docks.” He seemed more comfortable now, easing into the slouch of the couch as his air of unfamiliarity in this new space dissipated. It had clung throughout my work, like he was uncertain how to act here, how to take up space. That was gone now, though, after seeing the monstrosity that is my dog. She tends to relieve tension well, and she had done it once more. The little creased furrow between his brows was gone, hands no longer clenched and pressed against his thighs. “Looked like they’d been there a while, but my Russian’s a little rusty.” That rugged smile was practiced, but tired. _Crashing hard, Bruce._

“Well, I know Brie talked to some of her people this morning, and she said that some of them have been in place since the late eighties. She didn’t know how many would still be there, but I know that she likes to downplay things if she thinks they’ll give me a heart attack.” He smirked at that, probably knowing exactly what I meant from Dick. Something about him reminded me of a younger, wilder Brie.

Something twisted in my lower gut, something deep screaming for my attention. If he noticed my silence, stillness, and staring off into space, he didn’t show it. It took me quite a minute to figure it out, to place the worry that was suddenly throwing my body and mind into a frenzy. Brie’s necklace was back and safe, but… “Who all knows about the necklace? Did they see you take it or were they following you for something else?” _Please, dear god, please don’t let this turn into what I think it’s about to._

It was Bruce’s turn to grow quiet and gaze into the middle distance like an idiodic action movie star. It did nothing to quell my anxiety. “The man I took it from, I think I heard someone call him Maxim. But yes, they saw me take it and followed me from there. Reanna? _Reanna?_ ” I had stopped moving entirely. I couldn’t feel my hands, which is probably what led to that beautiful mug of coffee falling to the ground and shattering into miniscule shards across my living room floor.

I asked him, but I must have been whispering or silent because I had to ask again, steeling my voice hard in my throat for it to make any sound at all. “ _Did you say Maxim?_ ”

One of Brie’s brothers. From what I understood, he wasn’t likely the one to try anything on her, but he _is_ the one most likely to tell the others where she is currently. They were beyond angry after her testimony put their mother away, and the only things going through my mind were the various images of atrocities they had committed over the years that Brie knew of, just as a young girl. She was shielded from the worst of it, she said, but that did nothing to stop my brain from illustrating the gore and gun violence she had seen in her few years. Her brothers were older now, and had grown up in the environment that Brie counted herself lucky to be able to escape from. I could only imagine what they would want to do to her. And imagining I must have been, as Bruce had sufficiently freaked due to my unresponsiveness that he had begun cleaning the glass pieces from the floor for lack of nothing else to do.

He only managed to grab my attention once the glass was sufficiently pushed into a pile and he could squat down in front of me to look into my eyes, the only thing left in my vision to look at. As feeling returned to my hands, I could feel his warmth seeping in, one hand entirely covering my own and the other rubbing soothing circles into my cheekbone with the pad of his thumb.

“Who’s Maxim?”

My eyes finally focused, and I could feel my fingers begin twitching and fiddling of their own accord around his, edges of fingernails scraping lightly against the medical tape. “Brie’s brother. Or one of them, I guess.” I was coming back into myself again, and brushed him aside as I stood. He protested when I walked away, but quieted when I returned with a broom and a towel. My head felt thick, like wet cotton balls had been stuck between my ears. Maybe it was my headache, coming through the tylenol.

We worked together silently, falling into a steady rhythm of _sweep, sweep, plunk, sweep, sweep, plunk._ I bundled up the glass and towel, more than willing to be down a towel to be done with cleaning, and took them to the kitchen garbage. Bruce followed, close behind, like he was keeping an eye on me. I didn’t feel watched, it was more a comforting presence, like he was looking out _for_ me instead of _at_ me. At least he was, until Bailey made her presence known once more, yipping and pawing at the glass door from her hind legs like a goddamn kangaroo.

He folded his arms, leaning his hips back against the counter. He watched her a moment, then turned a little towards me to ask, deadpan as ever, “Does she ever calm down?” I held his gaze for a moment before breaking away, laughing for the both of us. I hoped it came out smoother than I heard it, still bordering on hysterical.

“For me? Yeah, all the time. Around Brie, or anyone else for that matter? _Hell_ no.” She demonstrated my point, enraged by our sitting back and watching her scramble for attention and hopping back and forth, spinning around when her bounce was too fast for her landing. A few minutes more of watching her like this, and I was already tired of her barking. “C’mon,” I said, brushing his upper arm as I passed.

A quick glance behind me revealed exactly what I expected: Bruce following sightlessly, vision obstructed by a thumb and forefinger trying and failing to rub away the sleepiness. I bypassed the couch, opting instead for a short hallway that held my bedroom. I don't think he realized where I was leading him, because he stood around blinking, bleary eyes struggling to take in the mass around him.

My bedroom, I should clarify, is not messy. There is no wall space, of course, obscured entirely with art and diagrams, shelves of books and knickknacks, hanging plants with sprawling leafy vines. There was little floor space, as well, as a large desk by the window, the bed, and the many stands and shelves had taken that space too. An eventual questioning look had me shrugging, peeling back a corner of the top comforter.

“You’re exhausted, and so am I. Get some sleep, before you crash where you're standing.” It didn’t seem to process, at least not at first. I took his hands in mine again, giving them a good once-over, peeking between tape at the shriveglue seals. Content that they weren’t going to leak blood all over my sheets, I released his hands, inching mine higher, up his wrists, around his forearms. Warm and solid and _far too comforting to be safe._ Instead of giving into that urge to spread my grip farther, I pulled on him gently, pulling him closer to the bed, pushing until he was finally seated, at least.

I didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to leave that warmth behind. I compromised with lingering far too long, letting my fingers trail as I slowly removed them. He didn’t protest as much as I thought he would, leaning back against the pillows just a bit, clearly to show me he was alright with falling asleep here. For some reason, I couldn’t picture him propped up on my pillows properly, could only see a comical picture in my brain of him spreadeagled on the bed, floor covered in pillows and blankets and sheets. I shook the feeling off, and stood properly again, unhurriedly making my way around the bed and towards the door.

I stopped just before leaving, turning my head back and nearly imploding into laughter at the sight of him all tucked in, half asleep already. More than the laughter, there was a thick feeling in my chest, a space full to bursting.

“Sleep well, Reanna.”

“Sleep well, Bruce.” And then I flicked the light out and closed the door behind me, slowly so as not to creak or clack. It felt odd, to have him in there alone, like waiting for a teapot to boil without remembering if you turned the stove on or not. I didn’t linger on it.

I let Bailey in, of course, and kept shooing her away from my bedroom door until I managed to distract her with dinner. While she ate, snorts and various other sounds disgusting as always, I set up my couch to sleep on. Just an extra pillow and he blanket pulled down from the back, the usual that I pulled out when Brie stayed the night.

I’d been having trouble getting to sleep. That’s one of the reasons it was so comforting, and yet so unfamiliar to have slept so well in the Manor. The insomnia returned once again, and I was forced to use what had become my usual anaesthetic: a swift crack of my neck to one side that made my vision flash red, and then I was awake no more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if anyone knows how to embed images (I looked it up and the ao3 guide isn't working) that would be amazing but until then I'm afraid there'll be no art


	12. Crossword Clues

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Reanna catches Brie up and takes a little breather.

The thing that raised me from the dregs of unconsciousness at first was the yipping, and then the feeling of a cold, wet nose pressed to my arm, my neck, approaching my face. Bailey was in full force, of course, waking me by being a nuisance. I knew better than to try to wait it out, or she would drag the blanket from me with her paws like some massive raccoon. I swung myself upright, push-patting her down with one hand and rubbing the sleep from my eyes with the other. Autopilot kicked in, pulling me standing and drifting me across the floor to put together Bailey’s breakfast and then let her outside. The back of my brain registered the clock, which displayed a time far too close to nine to my liking. It wasn’t until I turned back away from the kitchen that I noticed a neat trifold paper on the counter, my name marked in handwriting that I’d come to easily recognize.

_Had some things to do but couldn't find you last night. Let me know that you’re okay.  
BW_

Couldn’t find me? My couch is at the end of the hallway to my room. There’s no way he could have missed me laying there. _How odd._

I didn't let the weird note stop me from preparing for my day. Tomorrow is the opening day for my lab, and on top of finalizing stocking codes and organizational minutiae, I still needed to give Brie her necklace back and see where she wanted to take this from here. I had my own opinions, like discussing the possibility of moving her on to another community angel, but I really didn’t want to jump the gun or suggest anything that might make her feel less safe or comfortable. Nevertheless, I flicked my phone open to first text her to meet for breakfast, and then to let Bruce know that everything was alright. Thinking about his note made the back of my head hurt, like a radiating burn from the inside out. **More than likely he was just overtired and didn’t see me. That’s gotta be it.**

I got ready to meet with Brie, brushing my teeth and combing my hair before tackling the sallow face peering at me on the other side of the mirror. My respite at the Manor had clearly already worn off, leaving those grey-green half-moons for me to cover in order to feel halfway presentable. I didn’t bother to acknowledge my growling stomach before running out the door, car keys and ibuprofen bottle in hand. I know the streets to Rudy’s by heart, and took advantage of this opportunity to try and relieve my headache. The pills I’d measured out for myself made it into my mouth, but an unexpected vehicle trying to merge without its signal sent the rest of them scattering on my car floor. I cursed and hit the wheel, but pulled into a spot anyways and staunchly ignored the red dots now decorating my floor mats. Instead I marched up to the newspaper machine, paid the fee, and snatched myself a stack of paper before heading inside, already having spotted Brie in the window.

“Hey honey,” I said as I approached, hidden hand busy inside my purse. “Have you seen your horoscope? Today’s supposed to be your lucky day, my little Leo.” I slid the folded paper across the table to her as I sat, my fingers already busy flipping a mug and grabbing creamers and sugar packets. She understood, of course, and dipped the paper into her lap to slide the necklace out of view before pulling it up again, opening to the astrology section. She studied it for a moment before laying the paper down.

“Hmm, it also says not to let my expectations get ahead of me.” She raised an eyebrow, more than ready to hear an explanation. There's been a lot going on for her in the past two days. I nodded, mouthing a ‘thank you’ at a passing waitress who continued her rounds with a steaming carafe, and flicked through the paper until I found the crossword.

“Well, he found it, what more do you want to know exactly?”

“Was it regular cops, or did he take it from _them_?” I had no chance to answer. The waitresses at Rudy's are just too damned efficient.

“What can I get ya this morning ladies?” The girl was Brie’s age, but seemed a touch bubbly and cheerful for the morning shift. A new waitress, it seems, as she was unfamiliar as of yet with our orders. We’re sort of regulars here, or as regular as we can get without maintaining regular public meetings. A private life is a rather demanding aspect of my profession.

After the menus were collected and the girl out of earshot, I set my paper and pen down, interlacing my fingers and resting them on the table. “It was Maxim.” Flat, no inflection, purely factual. She processes information well that way, when it’s about things that relate to her upbringing. She gave little outward sign that she heard, stirring her lemonade with a straw and eyes glazing over for a brief moment.

“Anyone else?”

“I don’t know for sure. He said they seemed to have been there a while, but Maxim is the only name he heard for sure. What are you thinking?”

She was still for a moment, unbroken silence only shattered by the arrival of full plates piled high with greasy diner breakfast food plunked down in front of us, napkins and silverware following. “I think,” Brie said, idly pushing around an egg-encrusted chunk of sausage, “I think Max was always too scared to look for me. During the trial the notes that would find me no matter what never came from him. He was always more… it was like he knew it was right for me to leave, like he _never_ forgave me for giving them mom at the trial. I don't think any of them thought that I would go that far.” She looked up, realizing that she had been avoiding eye contact, and brushed the tears away. “But I think he’s part of what stopped them from going after me like Al wanted. He just wanted to keep the peace. Or something like that, who fucking knows.” She scoffed at herself awkwardly, adjusting how she was sitting and tentatively digging into her skillet.

I let her be a moment, caffeinating and plucking at my own food. “Do you think you’ll be safe? I don’t want anything to hurt you, least of all something that can be prevented with caution.”

She nodded, finishing her bite and gulping some more lemonade before responding. “Yeah, I think so. I doubt Max would do anything to dig up shit from the past like that, from what I understand.”

“I see.” Just eating now, the both of us digesting physically and mentally. A moment passed, and with it the lingering tension. I finally posed the question I'd been dying to answer. “Latin soldier, centurion doesn’t fit.” My pen was poised above the paper, unmoving until its route was confirmed.

“... how many letters?”

“Twelve.”

“Conquistador, cross-clues willing.”

I felt my face pinch into a smile as the ballpoint rolled over the paper in smooth strokes. Brie seemed to be processing what had happened alright, and one less iron in the fire was a relief. My only other worry for the day was preparing for the opening of my new lab. I refused to let myself think about it for a moment, existing only within this booth for now, just a few peaceful minutes of sitting here with Brie fiddling with a puzzle, no appointments or meetings or dangers. Just _here._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: just get to the stuff you wanna write  
> the plot gremlin that lives in my writing gland: jUsT gEt To ThE sTuFf YoU wAnNa WrItE


End file.
